“See you then.” He hung up.
Charlene dusted off a dust-free barstool. “See who when?”
“Gordon.”
“The plot thickens.” She arched a white brow. “Did he call you, or did you call him?”
“Does it matter?”
“Men like to be the ones doing the chasing, even if it is the twenty-first century.”
“He joined the Baker Street Bakers,” I pointed out.
“Hmph. Not officially. And he didn’t contribute much. He did more listening than talking.”
“He’s a good detective.”
She nodded, sat. “I’m glad I caught you. I worried you might close up early, but I should have known better. You’ve still got that fighting spirit.”
“I should have closed early.” I shrugged, half-hearted. “We only had eight customers.” Even the reporters eventually abandoned their booth and left. I sent the staff home, figuring I could deal with any customers myself. Since there hadn’t been any, it hadn’t been a problem.
She rumpled her loose curls. “There must be something we’ve missed.”
Frederick raised his head and yawned an agreement.
“I spent the day pouring over Ray’s dossiers,” I said.
“Two things. First, we should have brought an engineer on the team before. I mean—dossiers? Maps to scale? He’s amazing.”
She snorted. “And the second thing?”
“I didn’t find anything.”
“How are we supposed to investigate out-of-towners?”
I dropped my towel on the counter. “Those articles about the other TV shows Regina produced . . . They included names of people who worked with her and Steve.” I trotted to my office and sat in front of the computer.
Charlene followed, standing behind me and peering over my shoulder.
I typed, pulling up websites. Luther had been a part of Regina’s crew for decades. There were other names—sound engineers and executive producers and actors. Unfortunately, there were no phone numbers. I searched the Internet, but couldn’t find anything.
“This is a bust,” Charlene said. “You know what we need?”
I swiveled to face her. “We need Ray.”
On her shoulder, Frederick opened one sleepy blue eye, closed it.
She folded her arms. “I was going to say we need a drink. Just because he has maps and dossiers, doesn’t make him a real Baker Street Baker.”
“I thought he was an associate member? Whatever he is, he knows his way around computers better than either of us.”
“Speak for yourself.” She sniffed.
“I’m calling him.”
He picked up the phone on the first ring. “What’s happened? Has someone been killed?”
“Uh, no, but we need your help. Charlene and I thought we’d try to contact members of Regina’s old TV crews. We found some names online, but haven’t been able to track down any phone numbers. Do you think you—”
“Great idea. I’ll get on it now.” He hung up.
“Well?” She leaned one hip against the dented metal desk.
“He said he’d start searching now.”
“Did he say when he’d finish?”
“Err, no.”
“You’re hopeless. But, you’ll be happy to know the Goddess Gals are leaving tomorrow. They’re having a farewell feast tonight. We’re both invited.”
“Nice.” I untied my apron. “I’ll meet you at my place. But first, there’s someone I need to talk to.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Not about the case.”
“No. I’m meeting Gordon at the dog park.”
She winked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Since that covered approximately nothing, I nodded and hung my apron on the hook behind the office door.
She followed me into the alley and watched me lock the rear door.
Feeling paranoid, I drove her to her yellow Jeep, parked on Main Street, and watched while she got in and started the car. I followed her a block, then turned toward the dog park.
Gordon’s sedan was parked across the street from its chain link fence. Fog swathed the eucalyptus trees, and though I couldn’t see any dogs, cheerful barks sounded from the park.
I pulled up behind him, and he stepped from his sedan.
We met in the street.
He pulled me into an embrace, and I inhaled the scent of his woodsy cologne. “Bad day?” he asked, his voice reverberating through me.
I sighed. “Aside from the reporters,” I said, my words muffled against this suit jacket, “who didn’t order much, Pie Town was dead. I’m not sure if it’s the mob thing or the car bomb that scared everyone off.” I sniffed, smelling something besides woodsy goodness.
He stepped away and gave me an apologetic look. “Sorry, I had to go to the dump after our meeting this morning. I did shower, but my shoes . . .” He trailed off.
“What were you doing at the dump?”
“That stabbing case I mentioned. We found the knife.” Gordon gazed into my eyes. “But forget about my day. If your business is down, it couldn’t have been the mob rumor—that didn’t hit the news until this afternoon.”
A Prius glided past, its headlights were weak in the deepening fog.
“Pie Hard was supposed to help my business. Instead, it may kill it. And Frank . . .” My throat tightened.
His hands slid to my shoulders. “What about your father?”
“He lied to me again. Frank told me he didn’t hurt people, and even though it was completely ridiculous, I let it slide, because what else was I going to do? But a reporter told me he was a mob boss.”
He lifted a brow. “Mob boss? I don’t think so. All signs point to him being a low-level employee. As to not hurting people, Frank’s never been brought up on charges.”
“That only means he’s never been caught,” I said, bitter.
“His only real brush with the law was when you were a toddler, and he was still living with you and your mother.”
Icy surprise struck my core. I didn’t remember anything like that. “What happened?”
“You disappeared. Your parents panicked and called the cops. They found you asleep in an old refrigerator box you used as a toy chest. Case closed.”
My hands clenched. “Until Frank joined the mob.”
“Unless there’s been a recent hostile takeover, your father’s not the boss. He works for—” He shook his head. “Never mind who he works for, but he’s a worker bee.”
“How do you know all this, if Frank doesn’t have any police records?”
“I didn’t say there were no records, only that he’d never been brought up on charges. Trust me. My intel’s solid.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The damp seeped through my hoodie, and I crossed my arms to warm myself. “He works for organized crime. My mother was right not to have anything to do with him.”
“Probably,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.
“The reporter also said the car bomb looked like the Vegas mob.”
“Car bombs were a Vegas mob tactic in the seventies and eighties,” he said. “We haven’t seen much of that lately. And no, we don’t have the forensics from the bomb beneath Frank’s car.”
“That’s not what the paper said.”
Gordon’s nostrils pinched. “We’ve got a leak. But even if we did have more, I wouldn’t be able to talk to you about it.”
Across the street, mist swirled, making phantoms of the fog. “Because I’m a suspect.”
“No,” he rumbled. “Because I’m off the case.”
Off the case because I was a suspect. I pinned my arms to my stomach. “Then how do you know you don’t have the forensics back yet?”
“Because Shaw’s rampaging through the police station shouting about the lack of evidence. Why do you think I’m hiding out at the dog park writing reports?”
“You could write them at Pie Town,” I said.
“Shaw’s banned me from Pi
e Town until the murders are cleared.”
“What? That’s totally unfair. Plus, how he’s going to clear the murders when everybody has a motive, and nobody has an alibi?”
He made a noise low in his throat. “We’ll make this right.”
“I just . . .” My eyes warmed. “I just don’t want Frank to be a murderer.”
He brushed his broad hand across my cheek. “What he is doesn’t change who you are.”
“It does if I give him a pass for all the terrible things he’s done.”
“He’s your father,” he said, his emerald gaze understanding. “No one would blame you for having mixed feelings.”
“We’re related, but he didn’t raise me. Frank left my mom and me for a life of crime.”
“Maybe. There’s something odd about the timing . . .” He shook his head. “Keeping him at arms’ length is a good idea, but let me do more investigating into his background before you make any decisions.”
I nodded, silent. I’d already made my decision. Frank had ruined my childhood, and now he was ruining my business, my livelihood. I wasn’t going to let that go.
CHAPTER 26
I stepped from my van and inhaled the Eucalyptus scent of home.
Caterers busied themselves between the picnic table and their teal van. A campfire lit the thick fog swirling on the hillside. Tiki torches flickered in front of the yurt. The goddesses seemed to be doing some sort of twilight yoga near the cliff.
Light streamed from the windows of my converted shipping container, and I stilled. It was probably a goddess using the bathroom. Why were all the lights on?
Charlene, her hands in the pockets of her quilted brown jacket, opened my front door and leaned out. “How was Gordon?” she asked. Her mustard-colored leggings blazed in the dim light.
Frederick, his eyes shut tight, burrowed his head against her neck.
I sighed and slammed shut the van door.
The cat’s ears twitched.
“Sensible,” I said, “as usual.”
“I don’t think I’d want a police detective who was otherwise.”
I walked to my house and climbed the steps, brushing past her. “It wasn’t a criticism.”
The tiny home was nippy, I guessed from all the goddess gals trooping in and out to use the bathroom. They were low maintenance, but I was glad they were leaving tomorrow.
“But he got me thinking.”
“Does your head hurt?”
“Gordon’s involved now. He’s putting a lot at risk by going behind Shaw’s back. Maybe we should cool off a bit.”
“And leave things to Shaw? Are you crazy?” She lifted Frederick from her shoulder. Arranging him on the foldout table, she sat in a chair beside him. “It’s the car bomb that’s rattled you, not Gordon.”
“Can you blame me?” I walked to the kitchen and stared into a cupboard. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” I shut the cabinet door. “Was the car bomb meant for Frank or me? After someone trapped me in that fire, I have to wonder if I was the target. There’s no reason for someone to make an attempt on my life unless they thought I was a threat. And the only thing I can threaten anyone with is solving the case.” I frowned. Was it the only reason?
She rubbed her chin. “Maybe. But everything that’s happened has affected both you and Pie Town. Regina’s death should have shut down the show, until your fa—Frank stepped in. And then there was that fire that nearly killed you, and then Ilsa, whose body you were conveniently nearby to discover. I’m surprised Shaw hasn’t arrested you yet.”
I leaned against the sink. “He tried,” I said, glumly.
“All right, let’s assume Frank was the target. Why kill him?”
“He might have figured something out and tried to put the squeeze on the killer. With his mob connections, I wouldn’t put it past him to try to use that to his advantage—rather than tell the police.”
She tilted her head. “Blackmail’s not really his modus operandi.”
My fists clenched. “He’s a mobster. I wouldn’t put anything past him. They kill people.”
“You’re afraid he might be the killer?”
“I don’t know.” Fed-up, I joined her at the table and dropped into a narrow chair. “I don’t know anything about him but what he’s told me, and I can’t trust that.”
“You know what Gordon’s told you,” she said gently. “Do you trust him?”
“Yes, but even he admits he doesn’t have the whole story.” I smiled. “Gordon did tell me about a time I fell asleep in my toy box. My parents couldn’t find me, panicked, and called the police. I can imagine the police report: Child found in refrigerator carton.” I loved that refrigerator carton.
“Forget memory lane. If Frank was the killer, why plant a bomb in his car?”
“Maybe Frank did it himself to throw suspicion from him?” I said. “I almost wish the bomb was aimed at me. That would imply Frank’s innocence. It would also track with locking me inside that burning room.”
“But you said the room smelled like gasoline when you walked inside. That room had been prepped to be set ablaze before you got there, and the killer couldn’t have known you were going to be there.”
I gnawed my lower lip. “No, I don’t see how he could have. So why lock me inside? Because I might have stopped his plan? Or because he wanted me dead.”
She unsnapped her quilted jacket. “And if he wanted you dead, I ask again, why?”
“If I had died in that fire . . .” I trailed off.
She stroked Frederick’s chalk-colored fur. “What?”
“I would have looked guilty, wouldn’t I?” I asked. “I wasn’t enthusiastic about Pie Hard being in my shop, and everyone on the crew knew how I felt.” My hands turned clammy. “The hotel manager thought I was an arsonist who’d gotten caught in her own fire.”
“So it was done to frame you? Whatever the motive, locking you inside had to have been spur of the moment. Maybe the killer wasn’t thinking much at all.”
“And there’s something else,” I said. “Two of our suspects—Luther and Ilsa—have been connected to arson. The fire could have been a way of throwing suspicion on either of them.”
“But why break into Pie Town? It must be about you. Maybe someone is threatening you to get at Frank.”
“It’s possible the burglar was just a burglar,” I said.
“You really think the break-in was a coincidence?”
“No.”
“Right,” she said. “Got any root beer?”
“And Kahlua.” I rose and made our drinks. On a foggy night like this, we should have gone for hot chocolate and cinnamon whiskey, but I was out of both.
I handed her the tall glass.
“Cheers, ears!” She raised it in a toast and took a gulp, smacking her lips. “That hits the spot.”
Someone knocked on the door, and I opened it.
Maureen stood on the ground at the base of the steps. “Hi. The caterers have finished setting up. I hope you’ll both join us for . . .” She looked between the two of us. “Did I interrupt something?”
I gulped my Kahlua and root beer. “No.” I was ready for a distraction from murder and my father.
“Then you’re welcome to join us.” She smiled an invitation.
I shrugged into a thick vest and followed her into my yard. I figured I’d duck in, grab a plate, and go hide in my tiny house. But the goddesses surrounded me, peppering me with questions about pie, which is my favorite topic. Charlene’s favorite is anything weird and macabre. She was right at home with their conversations about auras, astrology, and attachments.
Frederick seemed to enjoy himself as much as a comatose cat could. The women cooed over him, cuddling his limp form.
“. . . and then we all did soul retrievals,” a woman named Marissa was saying. She waved her plump hands enthusiastically. “I discovered that I’d left a piece of myself back at the trauma point, and that was why every time I saw a Stellar Jay my stomach knotted.
”
Charlene nudged me, and the grape and quinoa salad on my paper plate slipped sideways. “Maybe that’s why you’re afraid of UFOs,” she whispered loudly.
My face grew hot. “Charlene!”
Marissa’s brow furrowed. She was in her mid-sixties, with loose, long blond hair and an easy smile. “Is that why you’re not well this evening? I can see the tension in your aura.”
I grabbed a plastic glass of pomegranate champagne from the picnic table and took a swig. “No. It’s . . .” The last thing I wanted to do was talk about Frank. I blew out my breath. “Yes,” I lied. “UFOs. Being out in the open at night, the fog, not being able to see what’s coming. Little green men could be anywhere.”
Marissa set her plate on a nearby rock and squeezed my hand. “You poor thing. Why don’t you try a soul retrieval?”
“Yes, Val,” Charlene said. “Why don’t you?”
“Ah . . .” No. No way. No to the third power.
“It’s only light self-hypnosis,” the goddess gal said. “You’re in control the whole time. It’s not like those shows on TV, where people quack like ducks and forget where and who they are. Maureen can explain it better.” She motioned to a small cluster of women in flowing caftans, and Maureen wafted over.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I—”
“Val’s interested in learning more about a soul retrieval,” Charlene said.
My lips pressed tight. I had not said that.
Maureen turned her round face toward me. “Oh?” She adjusted a clip in her thick red hair, done up in a zaftig bun.
“For her little UFO problem,” Charlene said.
Maureen smiled at me. “You are? I’d love to guide you through a retrieval. You’ve been such a patient hostess. It would be our way of saying thank you.”
“Oh,” I said, “you don’t need to thank—”
“You’re welcome,” Charlene said. “Let’s do this.”
Maureen gestured to the yurt. “Why don’t we go inside for some privacy? Marissa, will you ask everyone to stay outside until we’re through?”
“Sure!” She bustled to a cluster of women.
Charlene collected Frederick, and we followed Maureen to the yurt.
She swept aside the cloth door, and we walked inside.
I gasped. Like my tiny house, the yurt looked a lot bigger on the inside than the outside. Maybe the illusion was due to the high, domed ceiling, or the curve of the wood beams arcing toward the central hole at the top. Giant pillows lay scattered across the layers of colorful carpets strewn along the floor. Sleeping bags had been neatly rolled and stacked in one corner, beside a pile of suitcases.
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