Never Say Pie Page 20

  “You’re drifting off,” he said.

  I sat up straight. How did he know my mind was elsewhere? I pride myself on my ability to look interested even when I’m not. I guess I’m not as good as I thought I was. Or he’s better than I thought he was.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s past my bedtime. I had a great time. Your dinner was fabulous. And the after-dinner entertainment … Just what I’d expect from a lawman.”

  “Is this what you expected?” he said and he pulled me to my feet and kissed me. I hadn’t been kissed like that since high school. And guess who kissed me like that then? I was breathless and shaky. I kissed him back and clung to him, forgetting I was mad at him for shutting me out of his murder case. Sam’s kisses had a way of making me forget just about everything. When he finally left, he took my keys and told me he’d bring my car back tomorrow.

  “Lock the door and keep your phone under your pillow,” he said sternly before he walked out the door. “And if you go anywhere tomorrow, use the padlock.”

  I nodded and tottered back upstairs. Tomorrow, I told myself, tomorrow I’d figure it out.

  But the next day I hadn’t figured anything out. Whether I was an idiot to fall for Sam again after all these years, and even more an idiot to think I could solve a murder mystery by myself without the help of lab tests, backup reinforcements, deputies, a search warrant, or even a gun.

  So I did what I do best, I made pies. I made another Huckleberry pie, this time from some fresh berries I picked from the patch behind the shop, which Grannie and I had planted many years ago. The berries were at their peak now, a deep eggplant purple and when fully ripe they were better than the most delicious blueberry in the world. I ate half of them before I’d even made the pie crust. Then to switch gears I made four individual steak and mushroom pies, thinking I’d freeze them for later in the season when the days get shorter and it was no longer barbecue season. I’d either sell them or keep them to serve friends. Which reminded me of Sam. He brought my car back, left the keys on my counter, and waved good-bye. That was it. I could still taste the delicious grilled lamb and fresh asparagus he’d made. I could taste his lips and his kisses too.

  After I sold some pies, I closed the shop in the late afternoon and padlocked the door. Then I headed out to Jacques’ dairy farm to return the robe I’d borrowed the night of his party. Sam didn’t know I was going, probably didn’t care and couldn’t stop me if he did care. Why would he bother? He didn’t believe I was pushed in the pool that night, but I did. Is it so strange to want to know why someone wanted to drown you? I’d return the robe and return to the scene of my near death by drowning and maybe I’d realize I was wrong and Sam was right. It was possible I’d merely stumbled. Or I’d have a flash of intuition and I’d recognize the voices I’d heard. In any case it would be good to see Jacques. He made me feel cute and young and carefree. I wasn’t sure how I’d explain the robe I was returning. But I’d think of something.

  When I got to Foggy Meadow Farm, the place was buzzing with activity. A tractor was ploughing the fields. The driveway was crowded with commercial pickup trucks. Workers in straw hats lifted bales of hay into the barn where the square dancing had taken place. To think that Jacques was in charge of all this. I was impressed. Under his veneer of casual caretaker, he must be more capable than he seemed. Even the cows on the side of the road looked more alert than the last time I was there. As if they were on a different schedule.

  I pulled into the driveway and looked around. A couple of workers waved to me and I waved back. In hopes of returning the robe before I saw Jacques, I tucked it under my arm and went straight to the pool.

  It looked just as pristine as the night of the party. No one was in it or lounging around the cabana. I hung the robe in the sauna and went back to the pool. I stood at the edge staring at the water trying to recapture the scene that night, hoping for the mental breakthrough I’d imagined. Nothing. The water sparkled. The sun was warm on my back. I was a good swimmer, I wouldn’t have minded being pushed in, so what was the big deal?

  “Who are you?”

  I jumped back. So much for my sanguine attitude. I whirled around to see a ruddy-faced guy in jeans and a work shirt, hands on hips looking at me.

  “I … I’m Hanna Denton, the pie baker. Is Jacques around?”

  “So you’re a friend of Jacques too? Maybe you can answer a few questions,” he said, glowering at me. “I’m Larry Dolan, the owner here.”

  What was he doing here? What happened to Jacques? Was there a curse on the Food Fair? Was everyone there actually a zombie with a secret life? No, Martha was normal. Lindsey and Tammy were old friends of mine. I would know by now if they were flesh-eating creatures of the night.

  “I’ll be glad to help if I can,” I said politely even though I didn’t like this guy’s attitude. “I didn’t really know Jacques very well. I mean just from the Food Fair.”

  “The place where he was selling the cheese and pocketing the proceeds?”

  Pocketing the proceeds? Was that his crime? “I guess so, if that’s what it’s about. We’re there to sell produce or farm products. Why? Wasn’t he supposed to?”

  “He was supposed to be taking care of the farm. Then we get a message in New Zealand where we’re on a business trip buying livestock that Jacques—if that’s his real name—has skeedaddled, hit the road, vamoosed, disappeared.”

  “Oh no, did he take anything?”

  “Just our good reputation and about a few pounds of our best cheese.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  He shook his head. “What can they do? He’s gone. I should have known. He was too smooth. His recommendations were too good. He made ’em up.”

  “Made them up?” I was shocked. “I don’t know what harm he did here but actually he did a good job of selling your cheese at the Food Fair on Saturdays. He had a real flair for salesmanship.”

  “Good at selling himself, that’s what he did. Smooth talker. Is that what got you?” he asked.

  I didn’t like the inference. “He didn’t get me. I’m in the food business too. I have a pie shop. I thought he was a bonafide farm- sitter, that’s what he said.”

  “He said a lot of things.”

  “Anything missing besides the cheese?” I asked.

  “I’m missing my faith in human nature,” he said. “I’ll never get that back. Why couldn’t the guy stay until the end of summer? Why run off like that?”

  Had Jacques killed Heath and left in a hurry before he could be apprehended? But why? Not just to avenge the bad review he gave to the Foggy Meadow Artisan cheeses which weren’t even his at all. Maybe Jacques had a problem with Heath somewhere in his past. Jacques was new here and so was Heath. Who came first? Who followed who to Crystal Cove? If Jacques was a suspect, why hadn’t Sam mentioned him? The answer was obvious. He didn’t want me to know. He wanted me to think it was someone else so I wouldn’t do something crazy like come out here looking for him and tip him off.

  “I hope you didn’t lose anything else,” I said.

  “Isn’t it enough he ruined our trip? We had to cut it short. We lost time and we lost our trust in people,” he said sadly.

  I stared at him, trying to figure out if he was for real. Was this angry, introspective farmer as big a phony as Jacques? Was he really Dolan at all? Was he only mad because Jacques took off sooner than expected? I decided to leave before I got pushed in the pool again.

  “Sorry about … uh, everything,” I said. “I still think you had an excellent farm-sitter, whatever his flaws.” As far as I knew, he hadn’t stolen anything except some cheese and he’d done a good job of caretaking.

  Dolan didn’t answer. He just shook his head. “Wait a minute. What did you say your name is?”

  “Hanna Denton.”

  “He left a note for you.” He reached into his back pocket and handed me a crumpled envelope with my name on it. It was sealed. I couldn’t believe Dolan wouldn’t have read it. Maybe
he had and he’d just re-sealed it.

  “Thanks.”

  I waited until I was halfway home before I pulled off the road and ripped the envelope open.

  “Hanna, sorry I had to leave without saying good-bye. It was good to meet you. I’ll see you again one day. Who knows. About that night—you’re a good sport. Stay well.”

  Now I was more confused than ever. I couldn’t believe Jacques would walk out on the Dolans without a good excuse. Especially abandoning the animals who depended on him. If he had an excuse, he didn’t confide in me. Still I was touched he took time to write me a note when he must have been in a big hurry to get out of there. Maybe he wasn’t as irresponsible as the Dolans thought. Maybe he left thinking the day laborers would continue to do all the hard work on their place.

  Back at my shop I unlocked my front door, grateful for the padlock hanging on the door. Upstairs I finished cleaning my apartment and washing my clothes. Finally I collapsed on the deck behind my kitchen. On my way outside, I noticed the pouch of letters I was supposed to deliver to Grannie. I should go over there, I told myself. She’ll want to see what she’s got to work with.

  I couldn’t help being curious. I too wanted to see what she had to work with. I also wondered if I’d be any good at giving advice. I guess everyone thinks they could do it. I looked inside the bag. There were a lot of letters, maybe twenty-five or thirty. Pretty good for a small-town paper. Not so many as to overwhelm Grannie, just enough to make her feel wanted. Surely the editor Bruce was glad to see what a good response they’d gotten.

  I sat down in my outdoor recliner chair which along with the small metal table took up most of the small deck. The air was fresh with the damp smell of the ocean. The neighborhood was quiet. Not a sound from the police station across the street. Speaking of the law, I hoped it wasn’t against the law to take a quick look at Grannie’s letters. Since they were already open, it couldn’t be wrong of me to just read a few. After all, one day I might inherit this job along with the one I had. I reached into the pouch and eagerly read the first one.

  Dear Maggie,

  I’m afraid my husband is fooling around. When I confronted him, he denied everything and he said he’d never do it again. Should I believe him?

  Confused

  My mind was spinning. For some crazy reason I thought it might be from Nina. Which would explain her husband’s absence and her red-rimmed eyes. Or was I getting paranoid, thinking of nothing but Heath’s murder?

  Dear Maggie,

  My brother and I are in business together. I take care of the nitty-gritty, he does the PR. In other words I do the hard work, and he gets all the credit. I’m afraid to walk out on him because he needs me. But I think he’s done something illegal like cooking the books because he’s acting weird. If I don’t report him, am I guilty too?

  My Brother’s Keeper.

  Oh, no, this could easily be from Bill or Dave. Was the “something illegal” killing Heath?

  I put the letters back in the bag and leaned back in my chair. But I couldn’t stop reading. I was addicted. I reached into the bag again.

  Dear Maggie,

  I’m a woman in business for myself. I’m smart, successful, and not bad looking. I’m playing the field for now but I don’t want to end up alone when I’m old and tired. The problem is I live in a small town and there aren’t many single men. Should I go after the only eligible man in town who by the way is smart, handsome,and sexy, or move to a big city where I’ll have a wider choice?

  Miz Biz

  I read the letter again. Was I crazy or was this letter from Lurline? And if it was, by “the only eligible man in town” did she mean Sam? He was definitely smart, handsome and sexy. I put the letter back and took another. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, having an advice column in a small-town paper. If I guessed who wrote the letters, wouldn’t everyone else guess too? Or was that the idea? Maybe that was part of the fun, trying to figure out who wrote what about who.

  Dear Maggie,

  I’m a single guy living in Smallsville, California. I have some secrets in my past I don’t want anyone to know. Nothing terrible, just private stuff, you know? But what happens when I meet a woman who wants to get close? How do I keep things to myself when she wants to bare her soul (and her body) to me? In the past I always just break things off and move on. Or I make her break up with me. She’s married by the way, but her husband is out of the picture.

  Roaming Romeo

  I couldn’t help thinking it might have been Heath who wrote this before he was axed. But if it was Heath, who was the woman? There were plenty of married women in this town. How many husbands were “out of the picture”? How would Heath even know there was an advice columnist if it was him? I didn’t know and it was my own grandmother. Maybe they’d announced it at a staff meeting and Bruce had asked for submissions to get the ball rolling. Or was it Sam? I shook my head. Sam writing to an advice columnist? Not in this lifetime. Sam involved with a married woman? Impossible.

  I took another and then another letter.

  Dear Maggie,

  I’m not normally a violent person, but I lost my temper the other night and hit my spouse who deserved it. I know it was wrong to take matters into my own hands, but I couldn’t help it. Someone called the cops and now I’m afraid I’ll pay the price. I need help. Or I might strike again.

  Scared

  I stood up and took a several deep breaths. That last letter had to be from Nina, I just knew it was. The other wasn’t. Nobody would write two letters to Ask Maggie. The part about the cops was the clincher. But what to do? The first thing I had to do was to stop reading these letters. I had to stop thinking about Heath’s murder. It wasn’t my problem. Sam said it and I knew it. Everyone I met, everyone I talked to was a suspect. Only they weren’t.

  I paced back and forth on my little deck trying to decide how I could help Nina before she struck her husband again even though he doubtless deserved it. God only knew what he’d done. Killed Heath? Why? Because he’d written a flattering review of his wife’s caramels? That didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

  I had to do something. I was tired of thinking about the murder. Tired of talking about it. It was time to take action. I couldn’t sit by while my house was broken into. I couldn’t just wait here for something else to happen like a helpless wimp. I had to make it happen on my terms. I would go to see Nina and find out why she smacked her husband. If she did. If not I would gracefully slip away. If need be, I would offer my support. There are places where abused wives or abused husbands can find shelter. No one deserved to be abused. I would sympathize with her or him and convince them to separate.

  If Nina was afraid she couldn’t make it on her own, I’d tell her there was big business in candy. Look at Mary See and Fannie Mae. I would help her get a leg up the way Grannie helped me get the pie business restarted after her retirement.

  But how to broach the subject without letting her know I’d snooped in the Ask Maggie mailbag? That was my challenge. I know. I’d take a pie. Who can turn down a friend, and I like to think I’m a friend, or at least a farmstand colleague who comes to the door with a pie or a cake in hand?

  What if Marty answered the door? Not likely since he was a vet. He had to be at work and if he was there, I’d simply hand over the pie and say good-bye. I’d try not to stare at his black eye and I definitely wouldn’t mention it. But I would offer my support as I would to any spouse who needed it.

  First I went to Heavenly Acres and gave Grannie her mailbag.

  “I’m nervous,” she said. “What if I give the wrong advice? And things get worse.”

  “They can’t get worse,” I said. “I mean, if someone is so needy they have to turn to an advice columnist they’ve never met, then they’ve reached bottom and have nowhere to go but up.”

  She frowned. Maybe I wasn’t making sense. Maybe my mind was on poor Nina. “Anyway, you are the most level-headed person I know. The people of this town are lucky to h
ave someone like you to turn to. Obviously they have no one else or they wouldn’t be writing to you.”

  “Dear Abby was always spot on,” she said. “She’s my idol. She was funny too.”

  “You’re funny,” I assured her. “And some of the letters are funny too. I mean I imagine they might be funny.” Like the husband who was fooling around and vowed he’d never do it again, even though he denied doing it in the first place.

  Grannie went to her bookcase and held up a leather-bound copy of The Best of Dear Abby. “This is where I got the idea for my column. I can never be as good as she was, but I’m going to try.”

  “If you need any help,” I said, “I’d be glad to do whatever I can.”

  “Thanks,” she said, “but this has to be my project. Ever since I gave up the shop and moved up here, I’ve felt something was missing. Not that I don’t love my life here. I do. But I need a challenge.” She waved the bag of letters. “This is it.”

  I left her contemplating her bag of letters. Maybe in a little while she’d get up the courage to delve into the bag. She’d have good advice for all those writers like “Scared,” “Roaming Romeo,” “Miz Biz,” and “My Brother’s Keeper.” I felt a little guilty that I’d horned in on her new job. The good thing was she’d never know. She had an entirely different approach to the job than I did. Because it wasn’t my job. She wouldn’t try to figure out who the writers were like I did. And she definitely wouldn’t go to their house to help them out. But just as I had to run the pie shop my way, she had to answer the letters her way.

  I drove to Mulberry Street and parked down the block from Nina and Marty’s house. I walked slowly up the street, hoping I wouldn’t run into any neighbors who might recognize me. Or realize that I was a stranger in the neighborhood and therefore out of place. So far, so good.

  There was a man mowing his lawn. He didn’t give me a second glance. There were kids playing baseball in a back yard. They hit the ball over the fence and I knew I shouldn’t touch it but I reached down and tossed it back to them with one hand. I didn’t think they knew who threw it.