Never Say Pie (A Pie Shop Mystery) (8 page)

I wrapped up a double-crust fresh peach pie and called to see if Grannie was ready. I suggested either heading toward Martha’s chicken farm or Bill and Dave’s ranch. I’d picked up brochures from both booths. I had reason to visit both. They’d both said they welcomed visitors in a general sense. I took that as an invitation. And an opportunity not to be missed.

Grannie said she’d need to be back in time for the Sunday night barbecue on the terrace of Heavenly Acres followed by a folk music concert. She voted for Martha’s chicken farm when she heard how the chickens were treated like royalty. So off we went, heading up the PCH, the famous picturesque Pacific Coast Highway. The sea sparkled on one side, surfers in shiny black wet suits paddled out to sea to catch rides on the long rolling waves and on the other side were fields of wild flowers. Not all of the PCH offers views of the ocean. In southern California parts of the highway are almost five miles inland from the coast. Some of that part of the highway passes vineyards and farms or rolling hills and even some urban landscapes for a change of scene.

Grannie rolled her window down and sighed happily. She had no idea I had any ulterior motives for this trip. She appeared to have forgotten about the murder or more likely she was avoiding the subject just as I was, so we could just enjoy the day and pretend it didn’t happen. That was fine for her, and for me too. It would be nice to learn something, using a kind of sneaky or subtle way of extracting information, but that wasn’t likely.

“We should do this more often,” she said patting the arm-rest of her old car, which still ran like new after I’d had the engine rebuilt and the shocks replaced.

“You’re usually busy on Sundays. Bridge, church, brunch …” I said.

“It wasn’t always like that. When I was a child, my parents would take us out for a Sunday drive along this very coast. My father had some stories to tell. He even knew some of the men who built this highway.”

“He didn’t know William Randolph Hearst, did he?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. But they said his house cost as much as the highway to build.”

“You say house, but don’t you mean Hearst Castle, the mansion where Hearst entertained movie stars way back in the twenties and thirties?’

Grannie checked her guide book and nodded. “It was designed by the wonderful architect Julia Morgan. It says here she was educated at the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris. ‘Hearst’s mother Phoebe Apperson Hearst introduced her to her son and voila, her career was launched. The Hearst Castle was a lifetime job. Hearst was always changing his mind, upgrading and adding to it’.”

“I heard he only wanted a bungalow because he was tired of camping in a tent on his property,” I said. “From a tent to a castle. I’m sure he could afford it. Read what your book says about the construction of the Pacific Coast Highway.”

She flipped her book open to the chapter on the history of the PCH. “They hired prisoners from San Quentin to work on the road,” she read. “The inmates were paid thirty-five cents a day and their prison sentences were reduced in exchange for their work. Locals also got jobs. John Steinbeck was one of them.”

“Wonder what his job was. Check the map, will you?” I asked, pointing to the glove compartment. “I googled Martha’s Chicken Ranch and I’ve got the directions here.” I handed her my printout.

“If I was still driving I’d get myself one of those GPS things that tell you where to go. They’ve got a voice inside, even tells you when you make a wrong turn. Helen’s son has one.”

“Good idea,” I said.

“I’ll get you one.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. I have some extra money put aside.”

I shot a sideways glance at her. She had a funny secretive little smile on her face.

“I’m glad to hear it. Did you win at bingo?”

“No, but I have a new job.”

“What? I thought you said you never had to work again.”

“I don’t HAVE to work. That’s the nice thing. As long as I live within my means. But this isn’t for money.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?” I asked impatiently.

“I’m not supposed to tell anyone,” said. “Not at first.”

My mind was spinning. What could her job possibly be? “Are you going to be one of those undercover mystery shoppers?”

“In Crystal Cove? Where would I shop?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you’d be perfect at it. No one would ever suspect you.”

“Thank you for your confidence,” she said. “Of course if you promised not to tell anyone …”

“Cross my heart.”

“I’m the new advice columnist at the
Gazette.
”

I almost drove off the road into a ditch. “What?”

“You’re surprised,” she said with a little smile. “You shouldn’t be. Around Heavenly Acres I’m known as quite a sage, in relationships especially.”

“So this is a kind of ‘Advice to the Lovelorn’ column?”

“Partly. We’ll see what kind of advice people want. I see myself as a combination of Miss Manners and Dear Abby.”

“That’s great. You’ll be a fabulous Miss Manners-slash-Abby.”

“Thank you. Of course I don’t get paid. But I figure it’s a stepping stone.”

“Absolutely. Today the
Gazette
, tomorrow
The New York Times
. Or do they have an advice columnist?”

She shrugged. “I’m available.”

“When do you start?” I asked.

“As soon as I get my act together and buy a new computer, one of those easy kind they make for us seniors. Then I’ll need some
letters to answer. Oh, and this is strictly hush-hush, so not a word to anyone. I’ll be going undercover. I’ll be known as ‘ask Maggie’.”

“That’s a good idea. Too bad Heath wasn’t undercover. He might still be alive.” I hoped Grannie wasn’t taking a dangerous job. All the better if no one knew she was the face behind the column.

“Oh, there it is,” she said pointing to a sign that said, One Mile Ahead. MARTHA’S FREE RANGE CHICKEN RANCH:
No antibiotics. No preservatives. All chickens raised without hormones. Family owned and operated since 1935.

“Sounds good,” Grannie said, referring to the chicken.

I was especially grateful we’d taken this field trip together. Otherwise when was she going to tell me about her new career? Now the subject was closed until she brought it up again. I hoped one day she’d be able to take credit for her advice. I was so proud of her I was dying to shout it all over the countryside.

“Is this Martha expecting us?” Grannie asked.

“Not exactly. I mean she said if anyone was interested they should come to her ranch. She’s proud of the way she raises her chickens, all organic like that. I could have called her … but I wasn’t sure where we’d end up today.” I also wanted to surprise Martha. Naturally I didn’t suspect her of anything but being an obsessive-c
ompulsive free range chicken booster, but I’ve been surprised
before. Sam told me once in a burst of confidentiality that murderers are often just as likable as the guy next door. I’ve even heard that many people would commit murder if they thought they could get away with it. It was just that Martha seemed like a tough bird herself, unlike her own birds which weren’t tough at all.

“If she’s not home we’ll just find ourselves a restaurant along the coast. Looking in my other little guide book here,
Exploring California Coastal Eateries
makes me hungry. Aren’t you?” Grannie asked.

I nodded. “As usual, you’ve come prepared. You’re a good sport to humor me this way. I just want to pop in, see her facilities and we can go have lunch. I don’t picture chicken farmers often taking the day off so I’m thinking she’ll be around. I don’t know if she has a big staff but she seems like the hands-on type to me.”

“I didn’t know you pictured chicken farmers at all,” she said. “Not a big-city refugee like you.”

“I’d never met one until I met Martha. You’ll like her. She’s outspoken and really into this organic free-range chicken farm stuff. Everyone I know from the Food Fair is passionate about whatever they sell. I feel like I found my group at last.”

“That’s good, you need a group of young people your own age. Though my friends are always glad to see you. In fact you might like to come up for croquet next weekend. We’re having a big game.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said lightly. Croquet. I was hoping I wouldn’t be that desperate for excitement. “But I do have friends, you know. I have Kate, who’s just great. The problem is all the other people from my class are in a different class, if you know what I mean. They’re married like Lindsey and Tammy, or married to their work like Sam, which leaves me …”

“Lonely?” Grannie asked.

“No. Not lonely. Not at all. I’m just happy that I’ve found a group of Food Fair friends.” The last thing I wanted was for Grannie to feel sorry for me and rope me into a croquet game. I pasted a smile on my face and patted her knee reassuringly.

“That’s good,” she said. “This murder is a mixed blessing. Of course it’s too bad for this Heath person, but it has just brought the rest of you together closer and faster than it would have.”

“Unless one of us did it,” I said staring into the oncoming traffic, half hypnotized, my mind darting from one vendor to the next.

“Is that why we’re here? You think maybe …”

“No, not really.” I shook my head. “We’re here because I want to go behind the scenes and see how other food entrepreneurs manage their business and how they live. That’s all.” I glanced at her, gave her another smile and said, “Really.”

She wasn’t completely convinced, I could tell by the look in her eyes.

“Don’t worry. I don’t plan on mentioning the murder at all,” I said.

Grannie nodded understandingly. “Then neither will I,” she said. A few minutes later we turned off the highway and after a ride down a one-lane paved road we arrived at a large gate with the name of the farm on a wrought-iron sign above it. The two-story white frame farm house was nestled in a grove of tanbark oak trees surrounded by open fields. As we grew closer, we heard the distinctive sound of free-range chickens clucking happily as they enjoyed the sun and fresh air as much as we did. We parked alongside a truck and a van with MARTHA’S FREE RANGE CHICKEN RANCH painted on the side in green.

I thought the smell of chicken manure would permeate the air, but it didn’t. Maybe because the total population of poultry was so small compared to the acreage. Which was the idea after all.

Martha came out of the house wearing baggy blue jeans, a Giants T-shirt, and a surprised expression. “Oh,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Sorry, I should have called, but my grandmother and I were in the neighborhood and we brought you a pie.”

“Thanks,” she said taking it out of my hand. “I thought if you came you’d bring the cop.”

Ah, so Martha wanted me to bring Sam instead of a pie. I understood that. He was tall, good-looking, and an authority figure. What’s not to like?

“Hanna has told me so much about your chickens I just had to see them for myself,” Grannie said with her inimitable winning way. “She’s been raving about your spit-roasted chicken.” Trust Grannie to come through with the right thing to say. Martha wouldn’t have heard words like that from Sam. You couldn’t drag a compliment from him, and he’d never gush over a chicken, no matter how succulent.

No wonder Grannie had sold so many pies in her time. No wonder she had two husbands who doted on her and left her everything they had. She made friends the way other people make coffee, over and over effortlessly wherever she went. I was more determined than ever to introduce her to the knife artisan. As soon as she had her facial.

I saw Martha thaw before my very eyes. I wasn’t sure if at first she was embarrassed to be caught in her dungarees or she just didn’t like people popping in on her unless they happened to be an example of Crystal Cove’s finest law enforcement. Or maybe she didn’t want us to see that most of her chickens were stuffed into hen houses instead of pecking around in the pasture as she advertised. Then why would she invite anyone to visit the place? You couldn’t hide chickens for very long.

“The reason our chicken tastes so good,” Martha told Grannie, zeroing in on her as if I wasn’t there or I was too dim to grasp the concept, “is that they’re raised outside where they can scratch the soil, eat green plants and whatever bugs they can find. No crowded poultry house around here. Have a look,” she said beckoning us to follow her around the back toward the fields. “You’ll see what plenty of space and a natural diet can do. No growth enhancers, no meat or bone meal, and positively no antibiotics.”

“I’ll never buy an ordinary chicken again,” Grannie vowed, and
I
believed her. Of course there was no need for her to buy any chicken or steak or fish ever again. Not as long as she lived at Heavenly Acres. “How did you get into the chicken business?” she asked Martha.

“My father raised a few chickens when I was growing up. Like his father before him. They sold the eggs to the neighbors.” Martha paused to lean against a fence, her face tanned and weathered like the farm woman she was. “Dad taught us kids not to get too attached to them because they weren’t pets—they were food on the table. At first we begged him not to kill Henny Penny or Chicken Little, but after awhile we got so we could whack the head off a bird with the best of them.”