Never Say Pie Read online

  Then I heard voices. Someone else was in the pool house. I reached for the door of the sauna, but then sat back and eavesdropped shamelessly. How else does a person find out anything anyway? I heard Jacques’ name mentioned and I leaned forward. It was dark. I couldn’t see anything or anybody.

  “I don’t know why he invited me.”

  “He cares about you.”

  “I don’t want to be cared about. I want more than that. Did you see him when that woman arrived? Went running off to meet her right in the middle …” Her voice faded away.

  Who were they talking about? Me? Was she jealous of my relationship with Jacques, which was pretty sad since we didn’t even have a relationship.

  “I told Jacques this is his last chance. I’m not following him any more.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” the other woman said.

  “Like tell someone who he is? Don’t worry, I can control myself. It’s Jacques who can’t.”

  The woman laughed. “You got that right. How many times has he done this?”

  “Ask him,” her friend said.

  “I can’t. You know how he is,” said the woman.

  “Gotta love him. He invites the cop to the party. That takes nerve.”

  “Which one is the cop?” the woman asked.

  “The good-looking dude with the cupcake,” she said. “I’d like to kill her.”

  “You can’t kill everyone he flirts with. Like the pie woman. Have a talk with her,” the woman said. “Get it over with. Do it tonight.”

  Have a talk with me? What about? Go ahead. I would be all ears. But they’d better do it soon because I was outta there in a few minutes. But was “have a talk” code for “get rid of”? That wouldn’t be easy. I was here to stay. And why bother? I didn’t know anything about anything. Instead of being scared, I was mad.

  “What’s her deal?” the woman asked.

  My deal? My deal was to mind my own business, which was making pies. Only stuff happened. Stuff that required me to step in and do something, like locate the missing cell phone or steer Heath’s brother to the police.

  On a related matter, why did everyone think Sam was with Lurline? Because she was hanging on his arm, looking up into his face with unconcealed admiration. She was probably dancing with him right now. I felt like bursting out of the sauna and asking those two what in God’s name they were talking about. They’d be so stunned seeing me pop up they’d tell me everything. Who murdered Heath. What Jacques was really doing here. Who ratted on the food vendors. Then I’d go get Sam and tell him. He’d be so grateful he’d appoint me his deputy. Finally vindicated for interfering in police business, I’d get into my car and race home as fast as I could. And tomorrow I’d run a successful pie bake-off using my new knife to cut slices for everyone.

  I’d finally have the answers to these questions too. Who’s the best amateur pie baker in town? (Which did not include yours truly of course.) What was Jacques getting away with? Was it murder? Or just on the run from the law for some white collar crime like computer hacking into someone’s bank account? Was he really farm-sitting at all? Maybe he’d done away with the Dolans and was robbing them blind, while enjoying the life of an artisan cheese baron. Maybe he thought he deserved it after that disaster in Ireland. Or none of the above. Jacques was simply a colorful and entertaining host who took advantage of his job as farm-sitter.

  But if there was foul play, I’d uncover it. Then I’d impress Sam with my fearless determination and unsung detective work. While he was dancing the night away I would be putting the pieces of the puzzles together. All of them.

  Of course I didn’t burst out of the sauna. Coward that I was, I stayed in there until I was sure the women had left, then I tiptoed out of the pool house looking right and left. Nobody. There was music in the distance. The square dancing continued and I’d escaped.

  I stood by the edge of the pool and dipped one toe into the water. It felt refreshingly cool. If I’d brought my suit …

  The next thing I knew, someone pushed me from behind. I stumbled, and tumbled head-first into the water. I was so shocked I inhaled a bucket of water. The water rushed into my ears, my nose, and my mouth. Coughing and choking and gagging I felt the chlorine burn the inside of my nose. I tried to swim to the surface but I couldn’t figure out which way was up and I panicked. I kicked, I flailed my arms around, but I was still underwater. What a stupid way to die, I thought. I thought I heard someone calling me. Was it Saint Peter or my long-ago deceased Uncle George? Finally I broke the surface. I gasped and blinked at the male form standing at the edge of the pool. It was Sam.

  “Thanks for rescuing me,” I sputtered angrily.

  “I was just coming in to save you but you’re a better swimmer than I am. Weren’t you on the swim team in high school?” He knelt on the tiles at the edge of the pool and held his arm out. I grabbed his hand.

  “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. I could have a relapse any minute.”

  Sam then took both my hands and pulled me effortlessly out of the water. I crashed into him and he put his arms around me, which was comforting seeing as whoever pushed me in could still be nearby.

  “I’m afraid I’m getting your clothes wet,” I mumbled, my mouth pressed against his shirt.

  “Should have thought of that before you jumped in,” he said.

  “I did not jump in, I was pushed.”

  Sam looked around. There was no one.

  “You don’t believe me?” I asked incredulously, stepping back to glare at him.

  “You’ve been drinking,” he said. “I saw you with a glass in your hand. It was empty. You fell, that’s all. It’s nothing to be ashamed of as long as you survived.”

  “I had one drink. I was not drunk. And I didn’t fall. I was—”

  “Pushed, I know,” he said. But he didn’t believe me or maybe he didn’t want me to believe I’d been a victim of foul play. He had enough on his plate without worrying about a prankster hanging around the pool who was probably just another guest who’d imbibed too much. Or was it? I gave a nervous shiver.

  “Go take your wet clothes off,” he instructed, pointing to the changing rooms. Obviously he was tired of this conversation and wanted to get back to the party.

  I went inside, took off my designer dress and underwear and wrapped myself in the luxurious robe from the sauna. I wrung my dress out and went back outside. Sam was standing at the edge of the pool staring into the depths as if there might be a man-eating shark waiting at the bottom.

  “There were two other women here,” I said. “I wasn’t alone. I’m not saying they pushed me in, but I overheard an interesting conversation.”

  “Which you would like to share with me,” he said. He sounded resigned to hearing me out.

  I felt so warm and safe, thanks to the robe and the presence of the chief of police that I sat in one of the deck chairs and stretched my legs out. Sam pulled over a chair and sat next to me. He turned to face me. He was waiting as patiently as he could for me to unload what I wanted to tell him.

  “It was two women,” I said. “They were talking about Jacques and they even mentioned me. In fact they said they were going to have a talk with me. Now I realize that was code for drowning me.”

  “Why? Why would anyone want to drown you? What do you know that they want kept quiet?”

  “Nothing. Nothing that you don’t know too. Everything I know I’ve shared with you. Why don’t they pick on you for a change?”

  “Who’s they?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No idea. My only enemies are Heath and his brother. Heath’s dead and I don’t think his brother was invited to the party. These two were in the pool house and I was in the sauna. If they’d known I was in there —” I shuddered at the thought. “They could have turned on the heat and locked me in. And I’d be steamed by the time someone found me.”

  “Are you sure you don’t have a persecution complex? Accidents happen.”


  “Especially to me,” I said.

  “First it was the walk-in freezer. Then the pig chasing you across the field. Am I missing something?”

  “I suppose you think I brought those things on myself because of my inquisitive nature.”

  “It has occurred to me.”

  I stood up. There was no convincing Sam and with him here the someone or someones who’d shoved me in the pool weren’t going to try again. “I’m going home.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “I can manage. Thanks anyway.”

  “I’ll follow you just in case. Keep your cell phone on. Or did it get soaked?”

  “My purse and phone were in the sauna, safe and sound.”

  It’s against the law in California to use a hand-held wireless cell phone while driving and I didn’t have a head set. But Sam conveniently overlooked the law, or maybe he didn’t notice I was holding the phone to my ear when he called me to make sure I was okay, although he was close enough since he was tailgating me all the way back to town. I took his actions as a compliment. Despite his casual attitude to my “falling” into the pool in a drunken stupor I could hope he might be having second thoughts and believed my story. Whatever the reason, he seemed more concerned than he had at the pool and kept up a steady stream of conversation as we drove in tandem back to town. Which was not like him under any circumstances as far as I knew. I was sure grateful for the bathrobe and I’d have to return it to the sauna, preferably when no one was at home to ask any embarrassing questions.

  We both pulled up in front of my shop at the same time and Sam opened the car door for me. My legs were not working very well so I tumbled out and he caught me for the second time that night.

  After a few minutes he took my keys, unlocked the front door, and carried me up the narrow stairs to my apartment. No easy job. I am not exactly tiny and the staircase is narrow, but somehow he got me upstairs. I was asleep before he even left, dreaming disturbing dreams of being locked into a sauna by Heath’s brother.

  The next morning I had a headache that I could not blame on excessive alcohol despite what Sam said, but being the consummate professional I am, I started setting up for the bake-off, hauling chairs and tables into the shop from the storage area in the garage and covering them with Grannie’s colorful tablecloths.

  Fortunately Grannie and her friends Helen and Grace showed up early. They were dressed for success in casual but elegant pants outfits, matching flat shoes and enough jewelry to start a pawn shop. They all three looked much more alert than I did, but none of them had been pushed into a pool last night as far as I knew. Instead they’d had the time of their lives.

  “We had the best time last night,” Grannie said hanging a colorful pink begonia in the store window.

  “What was it, a bridge game?”

  “No, it was karaoke night,” Grannie said. “They played all the oldies. You should have heard me.”

  “I have heard you sing in the shower. I always said you should have a bigger audience,” I said.

  “What about you? Didn’t you go to a party?” Grace asked me, putting knives and spatulas on the serving tables.

  “Yes, at the Foggy Meadow Dairy Farm where a guy from the Food Fair works. It’s out on Route 92. Have any of you ever seen it? It’s a beautiful place. Very upscale. Like the cheese they make.”

  “That’s the kind of man you should cultivate, someone with property.” Grannie said, and the others nodded in agreement. Grannie had waited to get married until she found a man with money and property. The others had done well too. Otherwise they wouldn’t be at Heavenly Acres, which cost an arm and a leg.

  “Unfortunately it isn’t his farm,” I explained. “It’s the Dolans’. Jacques is what’s known as a farm-sitter. He takes care of people’s farms when they’re on vacation. For all I know he doesn’t have a cent of his own, but he sure knows his cheese and how to throw a good party.”

  “Jacques,” said Helen thoughtfully. “He sounds French and you know how they can be very sexy. Does he look like Yves Montand?”

  I had to admit I didn’t know who she was talking about.

  “Good looks are not enough,” Grannie said, coming into the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “Sexy and romantic are all well and good, but you want someone who’s around for the long term. This Jacques may return to France and then where will you be?”

  “I’ll be right here with you,” I said. “Jacques is really cute, he’s got a to-die-for accent, and he’s a lot of fun. You’ll have to meet him,” I said so the whole gang could hear me. As usual, they quickly responded and they didn’t disappoint.

  “Cute and fun? Is that what you’re looking for? You’re not seventeen anymore,” Grannie said with a disapproving look.

  “Take your time to look around and find someone to take care of you,” Helen advised.

  “I think I can take care of myself,” I said. “I want a partner, not a caretaker.”

  “I know how you feel,” Grace said soothingly. “I was young once. There’s no rush. You deserve someone special. So hold out for what you want. Someone with a solid career, money AND good looks and someone who treats you like a queen.”

  I knew Grace was referring to her late great husband who’d left her plenty of money. I had no idea if he was good-looking. I’d have to take her word for it.

  “I don’t think they make them like that anymore unfortunately,” I said as I filled the coffee maker with the finest Arabica beans. I’d never met a guy with money and looks who’d treat me like a queen and I wasn’t expecting one. If I followed these instructions and adopted Grace’s standards I’d never get married. Of course I wasn’t doing so well with my own lax standards so what was the difference?

  “As for looking around, there aren’t many men in town in my age bracket. And the ones that are, are dropping like flies,” I said.

  “You’re referring to that critic, I suppose,” Grannie said. “I’m glad you didn’t fall for him.”

  “Not likely. How could I fall for anyone who didn’t like my pies?” I thought of Sam, who fell into that category. Wasn’t that a sign to back off and quit hoping he’d come around? The pies, it was all about the pies. Pies were a symbol of all that was good in the world. They were sweet or savory, crisp on the outside and soft on the inside. They underwent a transformation in the oven from a soggy mixture to a crisp juicy product when baked. Every society in the world had their version of pie. The English had the popular steak and kidney pie at every corner pub. The Spanish had their empanadas, the Greeks their spanakotyropita, the Aussies their meat pies and so on.

  “Sometimes it’s necessary to make compromises,” Helen said. Maybe she realized as I did, that no mortal man living within driving distance of Crystal Cove could meet all their qualifications.

  The bell over the front door of the shop rang and the first of the pie bake-off contestants arrived with a Boston Cream Pie in hand. She was followed by Nina with a pecan caramel pie. It was so beautiful I wondered if she’d really made it. Never mind. I was not cut out to be the pie police. A deputy maybe, but I could never

  arrest a friend. I was glad to see her after meeting her not-so-wonderful husband and I welcomed her warmly, praised her pie, introduced her to Grannie and her chums, and offered everyone a cup of coffee. Nina looked like she needed it even more than I did. Her makeup was as perfect as her pie, but her eyes were red-rimmed. Lack of sleep? Or crying over something. I hoped it wasn’t her pie. I’ve been known to do that myself and it’s not worth it.

  A few minutes later the shop was full of contestants. Some I knew, like Tammy and Lindsey, and Martha and her sister. But others were new to me and would hopefully turn into fans unless they were such great pie bakers they didn’t need The Upper Crust. I should have nixed the pie contest idea when I could. Damn that Heath for forcing the issue. I started to worry. There were some dynamite-looking pies on the table. What if one or several of the bakers started their own home pie-baking service and
gave me a run for my money?

  Of course Lurline came with a giant cupcake in a pie shell. I smiled and told her it was brilliant. But what was it? A giant cupcake or a pie shaped like a cupcake? Whatever it was it was meant to be a public relations promotion for Lurline’s you know what. In fact her pink van was parked at the curb outside my shop so that no one could miss it.

  Grannie, who was standing at the door beaming and ooohing and ahhhing over each and every pie, was handing off pies to her two friends. If this was such a good idea, why hadn’t she thought of it? Soon the long extended table in the middle of the room was covered with pies of every shape and form. Actually most of them were pie-shaped.

  “What a job you’ve given us,” Grannie whispered to me when she finally closed the door. “How do we taste all these pies? You know with wine tasting they spit out the wine after they taste it.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I cautioned her.

  “Just kidding,” she assured me. “We’ll manage.”

  I was just about to rap on a champagne glass to get everyone’s attention. It was an impressive sight I can tell you—about twenty or twenty-five women, each standing behind their pies, which were displayed on the long table. Then the door opened and a woman I’d never seen before walked in. She was about fifty, but as everyone knows, fifty is the new forty, and she looked it. She also looked like she’d heard “When in doubt it’s better to be overdressed than underdressed.” She wore a form-fitting jump suit which I guessed was the latest in the fashion world. Along with high-heeled gladiator sandals. Up until that moment I hadn’t seen anyone in Crystal Cove who looked like they’d stepped out of a fashion magazine.