Never Say Pie Page 17

  But the most surprising thing was that she spoke in such a deep voice I was instantly caught off guard. For a moment I remembered reading about a woman who’d appeared in an article on transgender relationships.

  “Hello everyone,” she said in a booming voice. “I’m Gay Grimshaw, the new food and lifestyle critic for the Gazette. Here to do a story on the pie bake-off for the newspaper. Which one of you is Hanna Denton?”

  Eleven

  Grannie caught my eye with such a shocked look on her face I was momentarily stunned into silence. Was it someone she knew? Or was it just the voice combined with her looks that surprised my grandmother? When I recovered, I said, “I am,” and I went to the door. The new food critic shook my hand so firmly I thought she’d crushed my fingers. She looked so professional with a camera hanging around her neck and a briefcase under her arm that I didn’t think to ask for her credentials.

  “You’re taking Heath Barr’s place I suppose,” I said.

  “That’s right,” she said. “You knew Heath?”

  “Not really. He wasn’t very popular around here,” I said, careful not to speak too ill of the dead. I hoped she wasn’t a friend of his.

  “I can see why after reading his column. He sure did a hatchet job on you.” She looked me up and down as if she wondered if I was the one who’d done a hatchet job on him.

  I smiled weakly, glad that the contestants were all chatting and the noise level in the shop rose to a crescendo so no one was paying attention to our conversation. “How did you get the job so … so soon after …?”

  “After he bit the dust? Just blind luck. I needed a job, they needed a food and lifestyle critic and I couldn’t be happier. Great job. Great town. But no one knows about it. I’m going to put this place on the map.”

  I wasn’t sure what “this place” meant. She saw my confusion. “I mean the town and your shop.” She looked around at the walls, the glassed-in cases, and the tables laden with the contestants’ pies. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “Thank you. I don’t mean to criticize Heath, considering what happened to him, but you’re a welcome change from your predecessor.”

  “That Heath.” She shook her head. “Hiring him was a mistake and a half. Makes me look good anyway. That’s what I told Bruce.”

  What about killing him? Was that a mistake too? I knew a lot of people who didn’t think so.

  “I can’t believe they’ve filled the position so fast.” I also couldn’t believe anyone would want this volunteer job. Or was it? Especially someone with the equipment she had and the ambition to put me and the town on the map. Where had she come from and what was her goal really?

  “Sometimes you’re in the right place at the right time,” she said brushing her hands together as if she’d just disposed of something undesirable. Like Heath Barr. Was a part-time job for a small-town, once-a-week newspaper worth committing murder for?

  “How true,” I murmured. “Actually that’s how I got the pie shop here. My grandmother over there retired just as I needed a job and a home.”

  “That’s the kind of human interest story I’m looking for,” Gay said her eyes sparkling brightly. “As a companion piece to the pie contest.” She lifted her camera and snapped a picture of me before I could protest I wasn’t looking my best.

  I couldn’t help but think—if Heath’s job had been as a correspondent for the Los Angeles Times instead of the Gazette I might have wondered if Gay had had anything to do with his demise, but I brushed the thought aside. She was so much more likable than Heath, we should throw a welcome party for her. If she’d killed Heath in order to fill his shoes, I wasn’t going to complain. “I hope you’ll stay awhile and taste some of the pies.”

  “I plan to taste all of them. In the interest of scientific objectivity, of course,” she said with a wink.

  Now this was a woman after my own heart. But if she was a woman after anyone’s heart there was something different about her. Her voice, her handshake, and her manner were hearty in the extreme. I wished I could ask someone like Kate what she thought, but she’d just come in the back door and was tying on her apron to begin her judging duties.

  I picked up the glass again, got everyone’s attention, and welcomed them to The Upper Crust’s First Annual Pie Bake-Off. “My grandmother Louise Denton and her friends from Heavenly Acres as well as my assistant Kate will stop by each pie for a taste and then after a brief consultation, we’ll announce two winners, one in the savory category, the other sweet, based on overall appearance, crust, taste, and use of local ingredients. I hope everyone will stay around afterward for pie and coffee.”

  I made the rounds just looking, leaving the tasting to Grannie, Helen, Grace, and Kate. The pies all looked fabulous. I had overcome any jealousy I’d had and instead congratulated myself on throwing a newsworthy contest. I hoped it made me look confident and self-assured. It reminded me how much I loved the friendly small-town atmosphere contained in my little shop today and I thought I might even do it every year, maybe twice, once in the winter and once in the summer. As I wandered the room I didn’t sense any friction in the air. It was billed as a competition, but I hoped no one would mind losing. Martha, my poultry farm colleague, told me she was having so much fun she didn’t care about who won.

  “Your Snicker’s Bar Pie looks scrumptious,” I told her. “I didn’t know you baked.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “I made the crust from chocolate cookie crumbs, then layered whipped cream and chopped Snicker’s bars. You can’t go wrong with candy bars. They’re my secret vice. I had an excuse to buy a whole box to make the pie.”

  When I stopped to look at Nina’s Pecan Caramel Pie she said, “You didn’t tell me there was going to be a photographer here. I hate having my picture taken.”

  “Why? You’re obviously photogenic and you look great,” I said. “I didn’t know the photographer was coming. I’m surprised they’d replaced Heath already. Can you believe someone standing in line to be the food and lifestyle critic of a small home-town newspaper? And for no salary?”

  “No salary? Heath was making plenty,” Nina said. She stopped suddenly when Grannie came by to taste her pie.

  Or did she stop suddenly because I was about to say, “How do you know?”

  “I envied you,” I told her. “When I read that glowing review of your caramels. Did it boost your sales?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? Did it hurt your sales that he hated your pies?”

  “It hurt my feelings,” I said confidentially as the judges passed by. “But my sales? I don’t think so. I didn’t really understand where he was coming from.”

  “He was from LA,” she said.

  “I mean I didn’t understand his basis for judging food. Maybe if I’d had a chance to meet him like you did. What was he like?”

  “How should I know? He bought a caramel and moved on.”

  I didn’t quite understand how she knew that he was from LA and that he was making plenty of money when “he bought a caramel and moved on.”

  “I can see why he loved your candy,” I said. “But what about the bread, the chicken, and my pie? I don’t get it.”

  I realized that Nina’s expression had changed. She was looking over my shoulder, her eyes glazed over. I was spending way too much time on the subject of Heath and his reviews. He was gone. It was over. She’d moved on and so would I. Literally.

  I wished her good luck and made the rounds admiring a golden-brown onion and cumin quiche in the savory category. The baker, a friend of Grannie’s named Olga, said the classic buttery pâte brisée crust was flavored with rosemary, Parmesan, and thyme. It smelled heavenly and I told her I’d love the recipe. I was sure she’d get the savory pie prize until I saw a classic chicken pot pie chock full of chunks of chicken and vegetables, some fist-sized Cornwall pasties, and a cheesy calzoni that looked so authentic I swore it could have come straight from Italy. How were they ever going to come up with a winner? Or two winners, o
ne for savory, one for sweet. I was hoping to get every single recipe, including Blackberry Crumble Pie, Raspberry Cream Tart, and Mixed Berry Cobbler.

  Fortunately it was not for me to judge. I just had to drift around the shop, chatting briefly as I went, careful not to show favoritism, careful not to launch into a tirade about Heath or mention murder in any context. I wanted to turn back the clock to pre-Heath days, and I was sure everyone felt the same way.

  When the judges finished their tasting and adjourned to my kitchen to compare notes, I refilled coffee cups and talked with the contestants. All the while our new friend Gay was snapping pictures. What great publicity for me and the shop. Whoever killed Heath had done me and just about everyone else a big favor by giving us Gay. Maybe they’d done a favor for his brother who might inherit some money. Who cared who killed him? Sam did, but not me. Just as long as no one thought I’d done it.

  When the judges came out of the kitchen I asked Grannie, as the once and always Crystal Cove Pie Queen, to announce the winners.

  “First place in the savory category is the Caramelized Onion and Goat Cheese Pie by Madeline Hooper.” The applause was loud and sincere. Madeline, who I’d never met before, flushed, stood, and took a bow. Grannie gave her a French Victorian silver plate. Where had that come from? Gay’s flashbulbs flashed. I raised my eyebrows questioningly at the gorgeous plate. Grannie just smiled enigmatically.

  “In the sweet pie category, the prize goes to Martha Hutchens for her Snicker’s Bar Pie.”

  I must say I was surprised. I’d thought her pie was clever, but kind of gimmicky. Seeing Martha’s surprised look and delighted smile, I clapped loudly and congratulated her when she walked off with Helen’s classic tea set. I wondered if she’d find a use for it on her poultry farm.

  After the prizes, the judges and I passed out plates and forks so everyone could taste any pie they wanted. I was so overwhelmed with the success of the event and the participation of women I didn’t even know, I couldn’t eat a bite. Even though I knew I’d be sorry tomorrow. And to think I’d resisted the whole idea.

  Since I had all the recipes, I was thinking of making them into a book and marketing it as “The Upper Crust Prize-Winning Pie Recipes.” I’d use Gay’s pictures to illustrate it if she was willing, and give the proceeds to a charity.

  When the crowd finally left and Grannie, Helen, Grace, and Kate had helped me clean up, I drove Grannie and her friends back to Heavenly Acres. I thanked them profusely and they said they’d had a wonderful time. It turned out the silver plate was something Helen inherited from an aunt and was happy to give it away. Especially to Madeline, who she assumed didn’t have a plate like that.

  “Who does?” I said. “It looks like one of a kind.”

  “Not exactly,” Helen said, “but it is valuable. If you like that kind of thing.” Helen was into modern design these days as evidenced by the necklace she wore made of what she called “patina noodles.” The silver strands did indeed look like noodles and it made a stunning statement when worn with her black sweater.

  Grannie waited until the others had gone inside the stately entrance to the retirement home until she said, “What did you think of Gay?”

  “She seems nice, and she’s different from Heath. That’s a good thing. Had you met her before? You two are colleagues now. Both journalists. Working at the Gazette.”

  “I didn’t say anything to her since I’m undercover and she isn’t,” Grannie said. “I hope I’ll be allowed to tell people one of these days.” She sighed. “I don’t like having secrets from my friends.”

  “No, of course not,” I said. I didn’t like having secrets either, but if you break the law and fall into swimming pools or dumpsters, it requires a certain secrecy from even your best friends.

  “I have a favor to ask you,” she said. “I have a staff meeting at the Gazette tomorrow but I can’t go. I hope they won’t think I’m not interested.”

  “You have something else going on?” I asked. I assumed, wrongly, I guess, that retired people had nothing to do but an endless series of bridge and croquet games, all optional.

  “I’m the caller at the morning bingo game. I was wondering if you’d go to the meeting in my place. I think Bruce, Mr. Scarsdale, will just hand me the letters I’m supposed to answer. I don’t see why I have to be there in person. And what if someone saw me? They’d wonder what I was doing there.”

  “Sure, I’ll be glad to go. I’ll just hang a closed sign on the store if it’s just a quick meeting. But will I need a note from you to say it’s okay if I take your mail? I don’t think Bruce is very fond of me to tell the truth.”

  “I don’t know why he wouldn’t be. Everyone likes you.”

  “Yes, well … maybe he does. Maybe I caught him at a bad moment one day when I dropped in. It was right after the murder. He was probably distressed, seeing it happened on the premises. He seemed curt.”

  “He’s not curt with me, but I notice people are nicer to old people.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” I said.

  “Being old?” she asked.

  “Having people be nice to me.”

  She smiled and patted me on the arm. “You tell me who isn’t nice to you and I’ll give them a piece of my mind,” she said.

  “I’ll make out a list,” I said. I smiled to show I was joking. But she didn’t look convinced. She looked worried. “I’ll be glad when this murder is solved.”

  “Me too.” I watched her walk through the glass doors of the main building lobby. I wondered if Grannie really had to call the numbers at the bingo game. Or did she just not want to go. I did want to go. It gave me an excuse to visit the scene of the crime, get a sense of what was going on there and if anyone suspected me of the break-in.

  The next day, I wished Grannie had told Bruce, the Gazette editor, that I was filling in for her, because when I walked in, he said, “What are you doing here?”

  “My grandmother Louise Denton couldn’t make it so she asked me to pick up her mail for her today, I hope it’s okay.”

  He nodded but he didn’t look happy to see me. Did he remember I’d come by right after the murder? Did he suspect me of breaking in that night and taking Heath’s phone? Or was he just in a bad mood because someone killed his reporter on the premises? He had to be glad Heath had been replaced by Gay.

  The first thing I noticed when I arrived at the Gazette office was Heath’s office door was wide open and Gay was standing in the doorway talking to another man. Gay greeted me warmly and he walked away.

  “Come in,” she said. She stepped aside and waved me into the office. I tried not to gasp in surprise because how would I know the office had been remodeled if I’d never been there before, but I couldn’t believe what I saw. She’d taken over the once-depressing office of her predecessor and re-done it completely. The walls were painted pale robin’s-egg blue and Heath’s desk had been replaced with an all-hardwood and veneer work station with clean,modern lines. There was not a speck of dust or a sheet of paper on the surface. Her flat screen computer was on a rotating stand. How did she do her work without making a mess? I sure couldn’t. I looked around at the abstract paintings on the walls, stunned by the change. No sign of the old couch I’d found the phone in or Heath’s old desk. The air even smelled fresh and new with a faint floral scent.

  “You’ve done wonders,” I said. But if I’d never been there before, how would I know? Gay didn’t notice, she just told me she’d done all the redecorating herself owing to the austerity budget of the newspaper.

  “You’re here to see how my article is coming along, I bet,” she said.

  “Actually I’ve come to the staff meeting in place of my grandmother who’s doing some writing for the paper,” I said vaguely. “She couldn’t make it.”

  “Then you’ve never been here before?” she said.

  I shook my head emphatically. “Well actually I stopped in to drop off an ad one day, but I’ve never seen your office.” Technical
ly that was true. It was so dark in there that night I hadn’t seen much of anything.

  “I wanted my office to be an expression of myself,” Gay explained. It must have been a challenge seeing she’d taken over the depressing office of a murdered man.

  “It looks beautiful,” I said. “You’ve done a great job. I hope you’ll stick around for a long time.”

  “Count on it,” she said. “We’d better get on to the meeting.”

  The conference room wasn’t bad. Maybe Gay had revamped it too, because there was a long table with a bouquet of flowers in the middle and folding chairs around it. I took a seat at the end of the table next to Gay and watched as some others came in including Sam. What was he doing there? Dropping off the police beat column that listed the week’s criminal activities? He nodded to me and sat down near the door. Probably wondered what I was doing there. Maybe Bruce would just hand me the mail bag and excuse me. That would be best for both of us.

  Bruce called the meeting to order and introduced his staff. I was impressed. Heath’s murder seemed to have given new life to the small-town newspaper. Though most of us—by us I meant Grannie and Sam—were stringers or part-timers, they seemed to have all the bases covered.

  Bruce introduced us. “Hanna Denton is here representing one of our contributors. Gay will assume the post of photographer and lifestyle and food critic and of course our Police Chief Sam contributes his crime news.” I looked around the table. It was an impressive staff, all things considered. I was sorry I wasn’t part of the group.

  Bruce went on about how important volunteers were to the success of a small-town newspaper. How lucky they were to have professionals contributing to make the paper what it was. “Our police chief has agreed to expand his role to write a whole article for us this week. It will contain an update on the murder. Well, I’ll let Sam fill us in.”

  “Nothing much to say about the murder,” Sam said. “Except our investigation is on-going. We’re cooperating with a crime lab in Los Angeles. These things take time. I want to take the opportunity in my article to tell the community that to the best of our knowledge there is no new crime wave. Heath Barr was only a recent arrival in our town and his murder likely had something to do with his past. I won’t say anymore at this time. As usual, I advise the community to keep their doors locked, but otherwise enjoy the special environment of trust and cooperation. But I do have a story about the crack-down on the Food Fair by the county officials last Saturday.”