Never Say Pie (A Pie Shop Mystery) (14 page)

“So-so,” he said. “Waste of time if you ask me.”

“It’s good of you to fill in for her, you must be busy with the large animals and everything,” I said.

“You got that right,” he said. “But she paid for the booth rental, and she had the candy, so …” He shrugged.

“Right. It’s really delicious. She’s a great, what do you call it, ‘confectioner.’ Well, I better get back to my booth. I sell pies.”

“I know,” he said.

I walked back to my booth. I couldn’t help thinking of my theory, the one that Sam pooh-poohed. I proposed looking at the vendors that Heath praised instead of the ones he’d trashed. I had this idea that if he shook down someone like Nina, she could have promised to pay him for a positive review but changed her mind. When he tried to force her, threatened to tell her husband she’d taken the money from their savings, she killed him. I smiled to myself admiring my clever solution even though Sam didn’t agree. But she had a serrated knife, which I presumed Sam had confiscated by now. Back to my original question, how could any woman sneak up on a big guy like Heath and slit his throat?

Then I wondered, where was Nina? Had she skipped out of town
right before my pie contest because Sam was on to her? If he suspected her, he wouldn’t tell me. On a related matter, wouldn’t you
think a veterinarian would have more social skills than Marty did?
Didn’t they have to have a bedside manner sort of like a doctor to attract patients? Since I didn’t have a pet, maybe I was all wrong. Or maybe I’d caught Marty on a bad day, a day when he would rather not be there. Then why was he? Filling in for the runaway Nina so no one would suspect she was on the lam. He wasn’t working the booth just to sell a few caramels, but for appearances. If only I could brainstorm with Sam. Unfortunately I had to brainstorm by myself, with no one to tell me if I was making sense or not.

I went back to my booth to relieve Grannie so she could meet up with her friends. I had just begun explaining how I only used local Meyer lemons from the tree in my back yard for my lemon tarts when a trio of two men in suits and one woman with a briefcase came marching down the aisle and stopped abruptly in front of one of the vegetable stands. I stepped out in front of my booth so I could listen in while the officials, if that’s who they were, demanded to inspect the scales the vendor was using.

I stood there frozen with dismay watching as they went through a series of tests. The man who was wearing a blue blazer said the household scales in the booth were faulty and until he could provide commercial scales, the vendor couldn’t weigh his stone fruit. After this week he’d have to give it away or sell it by the piece or stop selling it. I could hear the waves of discontent all the way down the aisle. Not just me but everybody. Commercial scales were expensive. No ordinary vegetable and fruit seller wanted to invest in them.

Of course I wasn’t in any danger of being shut down since I didn’t weigh any of my products, but still, I hated to see the long arm of the law reach into our own folksy, small-town food fair. What would Heath say if he were here, I wondered. And what about Sam? Did he know anything about this crackdown? No, that couldn’t be.

I’d just returned to my booth after watching the same scene play out several more times with the scales and the fruit and vegetable vendors. I was feeling lucky that I had nothing to worry
about from the bureaucrats when the committee of three descended
on my booth.

“Any of your wares made with milk, eggs, cream or other dairy
products?” a woman in a skirt, low-heeled shoes, and a green jacket
with the county insignia on the front asked.

“Yes, many of them,” I admitted.

“Where is your refrigeration unit?”

I showed her the large cooler in the back of my station wagon. She positively sneered as if I’d buried my pies in wet sand to keep them cool.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to improve your methods of refrigeration before you can sell these pies.”

“All of them?” I asked.

“Just the ones with the ingredients I mentioned.”

I was livid. My cream pies were kept frosty cool and safe in my cooler. The others like strawberry-rhubarb and peach didn’t need refrigeration.

“This is a small-town food fair,” I explained unnecessarily, I
thought. “We make food for our friends and customers in our homes and bring it here to sell. We’re not a big commercial establishment.”

“Obviously,” she sniffed. “We are only here because we are following up on a complaint of non-compliance.”

“Who complained?” I demanded. Then I had a sinking feeling I might know who did it.

She leafed through a small notebook. “I’m under no obligation to tell you.”

“Was it Heath Barr, newspaper reporter?” I asked.

She looked startled, but said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her face said it all.

“You might want to put a check by his name. He’s no longer alive. You won’t be hearing from him again.”

“Is he the man who was murdered with the—?” she asked wide eyed.

I nodded.

She put her notebook in her briefcase and crossed the aisle to talk
to one of her colleagues. They both turned to look at me as if they suspected me of the murder.

Welcome to the club, I thought. I just hoped I’d discouraged them. Maybe they’d be afraid to tinker with the Crystal Cove Food Fair and the natives who worked there or they might find their throats slit too. Not that I said that. I just thought it.

I checked with my neighbors who weren’t harassed by the inspectors. Apparently candied fruit and spicy nuts were not suspect. Lucky them. I wondered how Lurline fared. After the committee had moved on I went across to her booth.

“They couldn’t have found anything wrong with your cupcakes could they?” I asked.

“They wanted to know where I made the cupcakes, if it was a certified commercial kitchen.”

“Is it?”

“Of course not. I make them at home.”

“Did Heath know that?”

“How could he?”

“I just wondered, because guess who reported us all,” I said. “Before he died.”

Her lower lip curled. “That slime bag.”

“Exactly.”

“So it didn’t do any good to kill him. He’s like a vampire. His legacy lives on.”

I gave her a second look. Her baby blue eyes had turned dark with anger. I believed for one brief moment she could have slit Heath’s throat. She was small but she was tough. And she wasn’t sorry he died. Who was?

I explained to her about my refrigeration problem and how I couldn’t possibly afford a portable refrigeration unit. Just as the fruit and vegetable vendors couldn’t afford commercial scales.

“We’re screwed,” I said clenching my hands into fists.

She stood on tiptoe to look for the inspectors. They were now on the far edge of the parking lot.

“I don’t care,” she said, “I’m going to keep selling. That woman said she was going to inspect my commercial kitchen. Over my dead body. Look, I’ve still got customers,” she said in a loud whisper. She did and so did I. “They don’t care where I bake my cupcakes.” If Lurline was not cowed by those inspectors, why should I be? I was just as gutsy as Lurline and I vowed also not to give in until I had to. I also hadn’t learned enough to cross her off my personal list of suspects. In fact I moved her to the top of the Lindsey, Tammy and Lurline list.

After our unwelcome visitors left behind citations ordering us to comply by next week, the market seemed to rebound. I’d almost sold out by four o’clock, even the refrigerated pies sold well, as if my customers had decided that the county couldn’t tell them what they could or could not eat. I felt better about everything, but still the citation weighed heavily on my mind.

I didn’t stay around much longer. After I packed up with the help of Mandy, I stopped by Jacques’ cheese stand to find him fuming over the committee who he referred to as “Nazis” because they’d asked him for, among other documents, his pasture management plan to make sure the sheep and cows were humanely treated.

“They asked me if my ruminant animals are allowed to fulfill their natural behaviors. Can you believe the hubris of those idiots? As if they know what their natural behaviors are and I don’t.” He paused to catch his breath and recapture his French accent. “Is it true that SOB Heath pulled the plug on us before he bit the dust?” he asked.

“That’s what I heard.”

“I’d like to know who killed him,” he said. “So I could thank him and ask him why he didn’t do it sooner.”

“What if it was a she?” I muttered, but he didn’t appear to hear me.

When he calmed down, he asked me if I was coming to his party that night. I said I was and I was bringing a pie, and coming alone. He handed me a map and said he was dying to show me around the place.

I didn’t see Sam at the market at all. Maybe he had better things to do than watch while some county official handed out citations and warnings. I wanted to ask him how seriously I and all of us should take this woman’s appearance. On the other hand, maybe I didn’t want to know.

Maybe Sam was busy chasing down Heath’s murderer. We could only hope. I’d love to forget my list of suspects. I’d love to think about something besides the hateful food critic and his untimely demise. I was not worried the killer was after me. Heath was hated by so many people. I wasn’t. At least as far as I knew.

I refused to worry about the county and the end of the fair as we knew it. Somebody would come up with a solution. We’d agree to change our profligate, unsanitary ways and they’d give us some time to comply. Or something. I had a pie contest to think about.

I put my few un-sold pies away, hung a closed sign on my front door and went upstairs to find something to wear that was different from my usual jeans, T-shirt, and apron. Yes, it was a party on a dairy farm, but I couldn’t stand another event wearing skinny jeans or cargo pants, gladiator sandals, and a hoodie. Instead, recalling what Heath had said about Foggy Meadow being a misnomer, I found a beaded halter dress I hadn’t worn for months, maybe never in Crystal Cove, and high-heels. On second thought, picturing myself touring the pastures and remembering how it felt to be chased by a determined, surprisingly agile oversized pig, I changed into flat sandals, just in case.

Before I took off, I left phone messages for everyone who’d signed
up for the pie contest the next day, including Grannie and her
fellow judges. I told them we’d gather at eleven the next morning at the shop. I’d have time to set up tables before that, but tonight I was going to try to forget about pie, murder, free publicity, or anything but having fun.

I had no idea if Sam was going to this party or if he was hiding out in his office huddled over his computer using his secure police search engine. If he came to the party or any party, it would only be to further investigate whatever crime he was investigating. Today it was the murder of the newspaper critic. Tomorrow—who knew? That was the reason why he did anything and the sooner I realized that the sooner I’d quit hoping he was interested in me other than as a suspect, an observer, or a witness. It wasn’t going to happen.

What better place to look for a killer than a cheese farm where many of the guests had an ax to grind with the victim. As for me, I no longer cared who killed Heath. I just wanted to have a good time at a party. Was that so wrong?

I got into my car, propped the map to the farm on the dashboard and heard a knocking. It was not from the engine but from the driver’s side window.

Startled, I looked out to see a strange man’s face looking in at me.

Nine

“You’re the pie lady?”
the man said.

I cranked the window down, vowing that my next car, if I ever bought one, would have automatic windows. Until then I’d be exercising my biceps every day.

“I’m Hanna Denton, the owner of the shop. What can I do for you?” An enterprising business owner like myself wouldn’t mind dashing in to get a pie for a paying customer.

“I’m Heath Barr’s brother Barton.”

“Barton Barr?” I said blinking rapidly.

“Oh, so you’ve heard of me?” he asked raising his eyebrows.

“No, absolutely not. I just wanted to be sure …” I wanted to be sure someone had actually named his or her child Barton Barr. Heath Barr was bad enough.

He must have misunderstood because he pulled out his wallet and showed me his driver’s license. Sure enough it was made out to Barton Barr and the address was in Los Angeles.

“Do you see the resemblance?” he asked, leaning down so his nose was only inches from mine.

“To your brother? I’ve never met him.”

“Really? Then why …”

“Why would I kill him? I didn’t.”

“That’s not what I meant. Why did you hate him?”

I sighed. I was all dressed up and on my way to a party on a Saturday night, something rare for me and this nutcase who claimed to be Heath’s brother was interrogating me. I wished that Sam would meander out of the police station and cite him for loitering or at least bring him in for questioning.

“I don’t know why you think I hated him,” I said, my foot resting on the gas pedal so I could make a quick getaway if this guy was as nutty as I thought he was. “But if I did it would be because he wrote a nasty review of my pies for the newspaper.”

“He was a critic. That was his job,” Barton said.

“I understand what a critic does,” I said stiffly. “But his reviews were all completely wrong. Not just mine. I invited him in for another shot at my pies but he never showed up. Now if you’ll excuse me. I’m sorry for your loss and everything, but …”

“Is that the police station?” he asked pointing to the building across the street with the logo and the huge sign. I wanted to say, “No, it’s a pancake house, why don’t you stop in for a short stack,” but I’ve never been very good at sarcasm.

“Yes, it is,” I said.

“I have a beef with the police chief. It’s been days since my brother’s murder and I understand there have been no arrests yet. On behalf of the Barr family I demand an answer.”

“Did he leave any dependents?” I asked.

“Fortunately no,” Barton said. “Unless you mean me. Our uncle preceded Heath in death by only a few months. What a terrible burden. First burying Uncle Otto and now Heath. I’m the only one left.”

“But you said on behalf of the Barr family,” I reminded him.

“That’s essentially me,” he admitted.

“How sad,” I said. “You’re an only child now.” Of course I’d been an only child all my life and I’d done all right.

“What’s really sad is that I have the feeling no one cares about my brother. What are the police doing?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’m sure the chief is doing his best.” I should have just shut up. Sam wouldn’t expect me to stand up for him, so why bother? Now if I was his deputy I’d have a different attitude. “This is a small town,” I continued. “We’re not used to murder. I say that as a concerned citizen and an innocent bystander. I myself have nothing to do with the police. I don’t think the station is open on Saturday night.” I realized that if I really had nothing to do with the police then I wouldn’t know or care if it was open on Saturday night.

“I would think Saturday night is just the time when most crimes
are committed,” Barton Barr said with a smug I-told-you-so look.

“Not in Crystal Cove, they aren’t,” I said. How I wished I had left two minutes before this man accosted me. If his brother Heath was half as annoying, I could understand the urge to kill him. I couldn’t seem to get away from this Barton’s narrow-eyed gaze. His grip on my open window frame unnerved me. I was afraid to leave and afraid to stay.

Barton stood up straight and looked across the street, assessing his chances of finding the chief in, I supposed.

“Why don’t you go over and knock on the door?” I suggested. “If you really want to see if the chief’s in.”

“I’ll tell him you sent me,” he said.

“You do that.” Now was my chance. I turned the key in the ignition and sped down the street as fast as I could. When I looked in my rearview mirror he was gone. I was afraid when Barton found that Sam wasn’t there at the station, he’d follow me and ask more questions I had no answers for. But after a few minutes on the open road when he didn’t show up, I started to relax.

The trip out of town toward the foothills had a calming effect on me. I needed it. Not that I lived in a big city—Crystal Cove was the epitome of small-town friendly and folksiness. But the wide open countryside was another matter. I tried to put Heath Barr out of my mind but I tried to decide if Heath’s brother was devastated about his death or not. Maybe Barton just wanted to find out if his brother had left him anything. I could have told him not to get his hopes up since the guy didn’t even have a paying job.

However he felt, Barton’s arrival on the scene could mean trouble. Not for me but for Sam. Never mind. Sam was a big boy and could handle a simpleton brother who accused him of dragging his feet in this murder investigation better than I could.

An hour later I saw the sign for “Foggy Meadow Farm the home of Honeybrook Cheese—Hand-made, Hand-crafted, Hand-held.” The sun was still fairly high in the sky which made the greenery on the other side of the white fences look all the more lush. We don’t have rain in California in the summer, so they must have deep wells or spend a fortune on water so their animals could graze. However they did it, the place looked like a picture postcard. Cows and goats grazed on one side of the road and sheep on the other as I drove slowly toward the white frame farmhouse.

There were signs along the way, welcoming guests with balloons, so I knew I was at the right place. Especially when I saw Jacques waving to me from the front porch of the house.

“You found us,” he said with a big Gallic smile on his face. Maybe he was French after all. Who else would kiss his guest on both cheeks as he did after I parked my car. Then he gave me a squeeze that could have been Gallic or just definitely bold and somewhat flattering.

“Hanna,” he said with a long look at me and my dress, “you look
absolument ravissante
.”

I was glad I’d not only dressed for the occasion, but also that I’d taken French at Crystal Cove High School, and I’d curled my hair and did what I could with my makeup. I’d called Kate before I left just so she’d know I wasn’t sitting at home another Saturday night reading cookbooks. She was thrilled to hear about Jacques’ party and said if she’d been told in advance she would have come by to do my makeup.

“Come up to the house,” Jacques said, taking the pie I’d brought
out of my hands. “This looks mahhvelous.”

“This is all yours?” I asked, looking around at the house, the outbuildings, the pastures, and the animals.

“Not really. Actually none of it is mine. I’m farm-sitting for the Dolan family,” he explained. “So I’m here for the summer taking care of the place.”

“What about the cheese making?”

“The cheese was made last year or last season. It’s aging now. I told them I don’t do cheese except for eating and cooking with it. But all I have to do here is turn the wheels and keep the temperature even. And sell. That’s my thing. I love the sales part of it. The market and the people. Most of them.”

“I saw your demo of the torpedo sandwiches.”

“Pretty good, wasn’t it?” he said, his eyes sparkling in what I imagined to be a continental sexy way. “I sold out that day. What can I say? I’m a social person. I know what you’re thinking. Why be a farm-sitter and bury myself in the country if I love company? Well, it beats working in a factory. Especially when I score a nice place like this one. Otherwise farming is a big fat bore. And lonely. Not that I’m always alone out here, they’ve got sheep shearers and veterinarians coming and going. What I do is oversee the place. I’m good at that. Giving orders and seeing the big picture.”

He wasn’t modest, that was for sure, but that’s not how he’d gotten this farm-sitting job or any others. He’d had to sell himself. What was so surprising was how involved he was in our local politics and crime scene, considering. “The Dolans will have to give you a bonus,” I suggested. “The way you’re looking after their interests. A lot of other farm-sitters would have just ignored that know-it-all and his food review and simply brushed it off. But you were right in there fighting for them. I hope they realize what a prize they’ve got.”

“Now you’re making me blush,” Jacques said. Actually his face did look a little red. “You’re right. I take a personal interest in the farm. I may not have a farm of my own, but one day I hope I will. I may not make cheese either, but I understand the mind of a farmer wherever and whoever he is, especially an artisan who makes blue-ribbon cheeses. I take pride in my work. Like you do.”

I could only nod in agreement. He’d obviously thought it all out. Then it was time to change the subject before we both got emotional.

“You don’t use a vet named Marty Holloway, do you? I think he only deals with pets.”

“I think his name is on my list of emergency numbers. So far there hasn’t been an emergency with the dog or the cats. Why? Do you have a sick pet?”

“No, but his wife sells caramels at the Food Fair. Maybe you’ve seen her. The thing is she wasn’t at the booth today. He was and he’s a terrible salesman.” And a rather unpleasant guy to boot. How did Nina put up with him?

“Some people have it and some don’t,” he said. “You do.”

“Wait, you haven’t even been to my booth.”

“I came by, but you were so busy you didn’t see me.”

I was pleased to hear what he said. I always felt I wasn’t as good as Grannie, but then I’m still a novice.

“Enough talk of work. You’re here to have a good time and forget about those morons who bothered us today. I guarantee they won’t be back next Saturday,” Jacques said.

“How do you know?”

“I took care of it.”

“But how?”

“I called and left an anonymous message at the county board of health about rats spotted at the supermarket in San Pedro,” Jacques said, referring to the nearby town where some of our residents shopped. “Now the suits should have something big to worry about besides the Food Fair’s scales and our food sample contamination. Yes, that’s what they nailed me for. Not any more. Everyone’s afraid of bubonic plague, or they should be. With rats in the county who gives a rat’s ass about a few minor violations at the Food Fair?”

San Pedro had a new shopping center thirty miles north of us. We locals had all been afraid of their taking business away from us when they opened last fall, but none of us had resorted to out and out lies.

“But, is that fair?”

“Fair? Is it fair to pick on poor farmers and artisans trying to serve the public with the fruits and vegetables they’ve raised?”

“No, but I hope they didn’t recognize your French accent on the phone,” I said.

“I didn’t have one,” he said with a cockney twang.

I gasped and he laughed.

“No worries, I can be discreet. I’m a man of a thousand voices and almost that many careers. I didn’t leave a trail behind me,” he said. “Keep moving, that’s my motto. One of the benefits of being temporary. I’ll be gone before they’re on to me. And I won’t leave a forwarding address. You know our home-town cop wouldn’t allow any vendor to cheat. Even when there’s a murderer on the loose. He’s there to protect us and our customers. Or he was until the asshole got murdered. Now he’s got bigger fish to fry. I hope he gets what he’s after.”

“Who, the police chief or Heath, the food critic?”

“The cop. Heath deserved what he got, if you ask me. That’s what I told the police chief. I felt sorry for him with so much on his plate and the whole town looking over his shoulder, so I invited him to the party.”

“Who, the police chief or Heath?” I asked.

Jacques laughed. “Come around back of the house. We’re having drinks around the pool.”

“Pool on a dairy farm?”

“Oh, sweetheart, I only work at the best places. What’s California in the summer without a pool? My job is to check the pH in the morning and the pool boy comes once a week. I know the drill. You should have seen my place in the Outback. Of course sometimes I hit a rough patch like when I got stuck one summer in Ireland. The ad for the farm sitter said beaches and a river for fishing. Sounded good, right? But the beaches were miles away, cold and frigid, the river’d been fished out by the locals who didn’t appreciate my horning in. They weren’t fond of the folks I was sitting for either.”

“How did you get out of it?” I asked.

“No way out. Had to put in my time. I had my reputation to think of. Once a farm-sitter gets a bad rep nobody wants him on their place.”