Pie Hard

by Kirsten Weiss

  “I’m sure of it,” she said. “Ilsa’s got a following, and two deaths on the crew make a big story.”

  Carefully, I opened the door, trying to avoid scratching the paint on the red Honda beside us. I wriggled from the car, and Ray popped out with a grunt.

  A breeze raised goosebumps on my bare shoulders. We made our way through the parking lot, and I untied the lightweight hoodie from my waist and slipped my arms inside. Ray steered me around an island of wildflowers as I tugged it over my head.

  The hotel lobby doors swished open. We walked inside the high-ceilinged entry, our feet sinking in the silvery-gray carpet. The reception area smelled like sagebrush and the ocean.

  Ray inhaled. “So this is what rich smells like.”

  “I prefer pie.” I pointed to a phone mounted above the wainscoting on a sand-colored wall. “Let’s call Nigel, and see if he’s here.”

  A light blinded me. “There she is!”

  Squinting, I threw up my hand to shield my face.

  “Ms. Harris, what do you know about these tragic deaths?” A female reporter I recognized from a San Francisco station shoved a microphone in my face.

  “What?” I stepped backwards and onto Ray’s foot.

  The cameraman behind her twisted the lens, zooming in.

  “First the Pie Hard producer and now one of its stars, Ilsa Fueder.” Her blond hair was lacquered perfection, her lipstick-red suit sharp as a blade. “And these aren’t the first deaths connected to Pie Town. A man was murdered in your bakery earlier this spring.”

  My spine went rigid. “He wasn’t murdered there. He only died there.” I scanned the elegant lobby for my moral support.

  Charlene and Ray had vanished.

  “Sorry, I have to go.” I chose a random direction and fled, but I couldn’t shake the reporter.

  “Why are you here?” She trotted beside me. “To meet with the crew?”

  I flipped my hair over my shoulder. “For breakfast. Try the mimosas.”

  “What have the police told you about the murders?”

  Get away, get away, get away. “Nothing. I’m in the dark as much as anyone.”

  “But you haven’t been in the past—”

  I darted into an empty conference room, slammed the door shut, and shot the bolt into the ceiling. Chairs sat stacked against two walls.

  This was ridiculous. I didn’t have anything to hide. Why was I running? I kept moving. There was a door on the opposite side of the room, and I hurried to it. It opened into another conference room, which in turn had a door opening onto the golf course.

  I slipped outside and walked around the hotel perimeter until I found another entry. The heavy, glass door opened onto a long hallway with picture windows facing the ocean and a gray carpet threaded with gold.

  Wary of stumbling on more reporters, I turned a corner and sidled past hotel rooms.

  A door opened behind me. Someone grabbed my arm and yanked me backward.

  I yelped like a scalded coyote.

  Nigel released me and looked up and down the hall. “Quick. Inside.”

  Rubbing my arm, I stepped into the gray-and-white room.

  He shut the door and bolted it.

  Towels and children’s swimsuits hung from every conceivable surface—from the big-screen TV, across a modern desk chair, over a concrete-colored lamp. A picture window faced the ocean. A beach ball sat near a couch with lime green and mercury-colored cushions.

  “This can’t be your room,” I said.

  “Absobloodylutely not.” The consultant’s accent had migrated from Queen’s English to Cockney. He raked a hand through his coal-black hair. One button on his dress shirt was in the wrong loop. “Some of my fans let me hide in here. Are the reporters still in the hotel?”

  “I ran into one in the lobby.”

  His shoulders slumped, and he dropped onto the edge of an unmade bed. “What a shambles.” He hadn’t shaved that morning, the shadow darkening his cheeks making him rakish.

  “I’ve heard no publicity is bad publicity.” And I really hoped it was true.

  He gazed at me balefully. “Bollocks. The show’s dead without Regina and Ilsa. And I liked Ilsa. Regina too.”

  “I did too.”

  He shot me a surprised look.

  “You’ve met Charlene,” I said.

  He barked a laugh. “I suppose you thrive on challenging personalities.”

  “Where were you last night between eight and eight-forty?” I walked to the couch. Edging a damp, striped towel aside, I sat.

  He arched a piratical brow. “Is that when Ilsa died? If you’re trying to suss out my alibi, the police have already asked, and I don’t have one. I was in my room, woefully alone,” he said, his posh accent creeping back. Nigel smiled, wistful. “A pity you didn’t join me.”

  It was a half-hearted pass, so I ignored it.

  “Though I hear you have something going with the rozzer,” he continued. Has he told you anything? Do they suspect anyone?”

  “He’s off the case.”

  “But he must know something. What have you heard?”

  “He can’t talk about it. Did you see or notice anything last night? Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  Arms crossed, he fell back on the unmade bed and studied the ceiling. “Ilsa could be a little rough on the crew, but no more than Regina.”

  “Who is also dead.”

  “Really,” he drawled, “if crews murdered every demanding star and producer, there wouldn’t be any of us left. Dealing with egos is part of their job.”

  “And what’s your ego like?”

  “I like to think I’m easy going, but I’m sure I’ve given the crew plenty of aggro. We’re like a family, always in each other’s pockets, and that makes it easy to get on each other’s nerves.”

  “Yet for all your closeness, no one seems to have any idea who wanted to kill Ilsa and Regina.” Or were they covering for someone?

  My cell phone rang in the pocket of my Pie Town hoodie. I checked the number. Charlene. “Do you mind?” I asked Nigel. Without waiting for a response, I answered the phone. “Where are you?”

  “Ray and I are in the spa. It was the only place we could go where reporters wouldn’t follow.”

  “Why were reporters following you?” How would reporters even know Ray and Charlene were involved in anything?

  “I’m a local celebrity,” Charlene said. “And they were following me. Ray too.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll meet you there.”

  There was soft murmuring, as if Charlene had covered the phone with her hand. “Give us an hour or so,” she said. “We’re getting massages.”

  “Massages?”

  “Paparazzi are stressful!” She hung up.

  Irritated, I blew out my breath. I hoped they weren’t couples’ massages, because that would be an image I’d never get out of my head.

  Damn. And now it was in my head.

  Someone knocked—shave-and-a-haircut.

  Nigel walked to the door and peered through the peephole. “Steve.” He yanked open the door and the cameraman hurried inside.

  Steve cursed. “I didn’t think I’d be able to shake them.”

  “Makes you wonder about those days you were paparazzi,” Nigel said dryly. “Turnabout and fair play and all that.”

  Steve glared. “My wife and Ilsa are dead. I’m not in the mood for your jokes.” He was wearing jeans and a baggy college sweatshirt rather than his usual photographer’s vest. His gray hair was rumpled.

  “But you don’t mind taking advantage of my shelter,” Nigel said.

  Steve’s hand trembled. His gray hair was rumpled. “And you didn’t mind taking advantage of my wife.”

  “Taking advantage?” I asked.

  “Mind out of the gutter, please,” Nigel said to me. “Steve thinks the show was too good for me.”

  “It was,” Steve snapped.

  Nigel sketched an ironic bow. “And yet,
like a loyal serf, I offered Steve shelter in my borrowed abode.” He flipped a towel off the desk chair and motioned Steve toward it. “I was watching for him when you walked past. Though now I’m wondering why I bothered.”

  “Because you owe us.” The cameraman collapsed in the cushioned chair. A towel slid off its back and into a smooth, brushed-nickel wastebin. “My wife may have been forgiving of your debts, but I’m not.”

  “What do Nigel’s debts have to do with Regina?” I asked.

  “She was kind enough to lend me some money during a small financial difficulty,” Nigel said.

  The cameraman snorted. “Small?”

  “And I will pay you back,” Nigel said. “Eventually.”

  “What are you doing here?” Steve asked me.

  “She’s interrogating the suspects,” Nigel said. “I have no alibi. You?”

  His jaw clenched. “I was in my room most of the night, like everyone else.”

  “Not everyone,” Nigel said. “Ilsa was apparently wandering the golf course by moonlight.”

  “There was no moon,” I said. “It made the golf course darker.” Why was Steve here when he had his own room to hide in? Had he come to have it out with Nigel, or was he really seeking shelter from the reporters? “Did you see Luther at all last night?”

  “And by last night,” Nigel said helpfully, “she means between eight o’clock and eight forty.”

  “How could I?” Steve asked. “Like I said, I was in my room.” He ran a palm over his gray hair. “You have no idea how much there is to do after a death.”

  My heart dipped. I knew all too well, but I looked to Nigel.

  He shrugged. “What he said.”

  “Was I imagining things,” I said, “or was Ilsa protective of Luther?” She’d seemed defensive of him at the pub, but she’d been critical of his absences. Had she been protecting him, or had she been trying to keep him from telling me something?

  “Ilsa isn’t—wasn’t—the monster people thought she was,” Steve said.

  “Her personality seemed a little . . . erratic,” I said.

  “She was the hard in Pie Hard,” Nigel said. “But it was all a TV persona to build conflict within the show.”

  “Story is about conflict,” Steve said. “I don’t know how many times I heard Regina say that.”

  “You worked with Ilsa,” Nigel said to me. “You know the truth. She might have been rough on people, but she was a marvelous pastry chef.”

  “If a bit high strung,” the cameraman said.

  “That isn’t fair,” Nigel said.

  Steve kicked aside a beach ball. It ricocheted off the entertainment center and bounced off a couch. “Come on, one minute Ilsa was all smiles, and the next she was mad as blazes. Her mood swings were legendary. I think she was bipolar. You could never tell if she was using hyperbole or telling the flat out truth.”

  That might account for her erratic attitude toward Luther, but she hadn’t seemed all that off.

  “Has that cop friend of yours said anything?” Steve asked.

  “Like I told Nigel, he’s off the case.”

  “He’s still a cop. He must hear things.”

  “What do you need to hear?” Nigel asked. “Only three suspects are still standing—you, me and Luther. And I know I didn’t do it.”

  “Well, I sure as hell didn’t,” Steve said. “And there are four suspects. You forgot our new producer. Something’s not right about that guy. I’ve put in a call to the execs in L.A. With everything that’s happened, they’re going to have to give me some answers.”

  I looked toward the curtained windows, my neck tensing.

  Nigel paled. “Why would our temporary producer kill Regina?”

  “He stole her job, didn’t he?”

  “That doesn’t seem a likely motive,” I said faintly. “I heard it was only a temporary job. And I left him at the bar before I found Ilsa.”

  “Oh?” Steve jammed his fists on his hips. “How long did it take you to find her? Because I saw Frank wandering the golf course last night before Ilsa was found.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Worried, the second thing I did when I left Nigel and Steve was call Frank. The first thing I did was check to make sure there were no reporters lurking in the hotel hallway.

  Phone clamped to my ear, I huddled in a window nook overlooking the golf course and the glittering Pacific.

  The call went to voice mail. “You know the drill,” Frank said. “Leave a message.”

  “It’s Val. Call me. It’s urgent.” I hung up and crept to the lobby. It was clear of reporters, and I darted to the high reception desk.

  A sleek receptionist looked up from her computer and smiled. “How can I help you?”

  “Can you put me through to Luther Armstrong’s room?” I glanced behind me.

  She pointed me to a phone on the wall. “Just pick up the receiver, and the phone will ring.”

  “Thanks.” I hurried to the phone.

  Two reporters with matching cameramen appeared out of nowhere and sidled up to me.

  Ignoring them, I tapped my foot, listening to the phone ring.

  A camera light flared. Shoulders hunched, I faced the sand-colored wall.

  The phone kept ringing. Reluctantly, I hung up.

  “Have you met with what’s left of the Pie Hard crew?” the blond reporter asked as she smoothed the front of her scarlet blazer.

  I brushed past her and into the hallway.

  “Do you believe someone on the crew is the killer?” a portly male reporter shouted.

  “Some are saying an obsessed fan might be to blame. Do you think that could be true?”

  I fled down the hall toward the spa. “I don’t know anything.”

  “Some are calling this the Pie Town killer,” the female reporter said. “What’s your response?”

  I stumbled at that. Pie Town killer? Nigel was right. There was such a thing as bad publicity. I broke into a jog.

  “What about the hoodie?” the man called.

  “On sale for $19.99,” I tossed over my shoulder. My Pie Town hoodie? What was that about? I pushed through the wooden door to the spa.

  A spa employee in a blue golf shirt looked up. She braced her hand on the smoked-glass reception desk and smiled. “Can I help you?”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the frosted-glass door. None of the reporters followed me inside. “I’m waiting for two of your guests,” I said in a low voice. A fountain trickled on the reception desk. I felt underdressed in my jeans and hoodie. “May I wait here?”

  She motioned to one of the slate-colored lounge chairs. Soft-looking white blankets lay neatly folded at their feet.

  “Thanks.” I sank into it and waited. I played with the mini sand garden on the end table. I picked up a healthy lifestyle magazine and flipped through the pages. I fiddled with the adjustments on the chair, which fully reclined. Did those two really have to get massages?

  Forty-three minutes later, Charlene, skin glowing, emerged in her green tunic and leggings. She paid and sat with a sigh in the lounge chair beside mine.

  “Where’s Ray?” I snapped.

  “Changing, I guess. After what he’s been through, he needed some T.L.C. Did you learn anything?”

  Ray was pretty upset about Ilsa’s death, I thought guiltily. I shouldn’t be so judge-y about the massage. In whispers, I told her about my meeting with Nigel and Steve. “You don’t really think Steve could have seen Frank on the golf course?” I asked. “It was dark.”

  “There are lights on that course,” she said in her outdoor voice. “And since they’ve been working together, he’d probably recognize his own producer.”

  The receptionist shot her a look sharp as a katana blade.

  “Right,” I said quietly, hoping Charlene would take the hint and lower the volume.

  She patted my hand. “It may not mean anything,” she boomed. “Frank’s got no motive we can see to bump off Regina and Ilsa.”

  “
Shhh.” The receptionist pressed a finger to her lips and pointed to a sign that read: QUIET ZONE.

  Ray emerged from the spa and shambled to us. Round face pink, he collapsed onto a chair beside mine. The blanket at his feet slipped to the wooden floor. “Wow. You were right, Mrs. McCree. I do feel better. Thanks.”

  “Stick with me kid.” She patted his knee. “Just not too close. It’ll ruin my street cred if people think I’m friends with a nerd. You understand.”

  “How’d you avoid the press?” he asked me.

  I explained about Nigel and Steve. “When I couldn’t find Frank or Luther, I ducked in here. For all I know, reporters may still be waiting outside.”

  “I suppose we can’t hide in here forever,” Charlene said.

  “No.” The receptionist glowered. “You can’t.”

  “Come on.” I heaved myself off the comfy chair and peeked out the door.

  The carpeted hallway was empty.

  I motioned to Ray and Charlene, and we crept from the spa.

  Charlene drove us from the hotel, dropping Ray at a modern-looking condo on the beach side of the highway.

  The two of us drove past the dog park. A familiar-looking sedan parked beside the wire fence—Gordon’s. Two golden retrievers romped on the lawn.

  “So what’s next?” she asked.

  “I left a message for Frank to call me,” I hedged, tearing my gaze from the dog park. “And we don’t know where Luther is. I’ll call Maureen’s sister, Annie, but we can’t do much more until we locate Luther. Plus, I have some errands to run.”

  “Want company?”

  “Oh, you’d be bored,” I said quickly. “Just grocery shopping.”

  “I need to go grocery shopping.”

  “And then I need to get the van’s oil changed.”

  “You’re on your own.” She swerved right, onto the road leading into the hills and to my blue-painted, converted shipping container.

  She retrieved Frederick from the goddess gals, waved, and zoomed away, Whipped Cream blaring from the Jeep’s speakers.

  I waited five minutes, then got into my pink van and drove down the narrow road. Eucalyptus branches scraped the sides of the old VW, and I gritted my teeth. I really needed to trim those branches.

  On the main road, I turned west, toward town and the dog park. When I arrived, Gordon’s gray sedan was still parked along the sidewalk. He sat inside, his head bent toward his computer.