Pie Hard Read online

  Also by Kirsten Weiss

  Bleeding Tarts

  The Quiche and the Dead

  PIE HARD

  Kirsten Weiss

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  Peach-Raspberry Pie

  Lemon-Blueberry Cream Pie

  Almond Toffee Pie

  Teaser chapter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Kirsten Weiss

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0898-4

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0901-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-0901-2 (ebook)

  To my aunts

  CHAPTER 1

  It began with a rumble in the dark. Objects clattered on the nearby bookshelf. Silverware and window blinds rattled. Cupboard doors bumped against their frames.

  My alarm clock shimmied across the end table. Four a.m.

  Never my best at that hour, I sat upright on my futon, my bare feet on the laminate floor, and held my breath. Was this as bad as the shaking was going to get in my tiny house, or would the quake worsen?

  Light flared, dazzling, and I staggered to my feet.

  Ribbons of light streamed through the front blinds. I turned my head, shielding my face. The glare shifted downward. Something crashed, shattered.

  I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I seemed to split, to become both the watcher and the watched. I saw the clock plummet to the floor and break into two pieces. I saw the bookcase shadow lengthen. I saw myself hunched and cowering, my shoulder-length hair tousled like a mad woman’s. Not liking the image, I forced myself to straighten.

  It was happening again. It was—

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  I shrieked. Careening backwards, I crashed into the bookcase that walled off my bedroom from the rest of the tiny home.

  “Yurt delivery!” a man bellowed.

  What delivery? Heart rabbiting, I grabbed my kimono from the coat hook on the bookcase. I shrugged into the kimono, hurried to the door, and threw it open.

  Backlit by the headlights of a semi stood a middle-aged man wearing jeans and a plaid shirt rolled to his elbows.

  A truck. It had only been a truck. A big truck, with more effect on my tiny house, up on blocks, than it should have. But why was a semi on my lawn?

  Baffled, I stared at his sun-roughened face. I’m five-foot-five and stood two steps higher than him in my tiny house, but our eyes were on the same level.

  He consulted his clipboard. “You Charlene McCree?” His semi’s headlights cut the fog. They illuminated my pink Pie Town van and the picnic table, glittering with dew.

  “No. What?” I scraped one hand through my long, brown hair. It figured Charlene was behind whatever was going on. “Yurt?”

  Two men clambered from the passenger side of the truck and walked to the rear of the trailer.

  “Then who are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m Val—what’s this about? It’s four in the morning! Who are you?” I shivered, yanking my kimono belt tighter. It was August in sunny California, but San Nicholas had its own weather patterns, and the flowered robe was thin.

  “It’s about the yurt delivery.” He frowned, studying his clipboard. “I swear this was the same place as last year.”

  “Same place as what?” I flipped on the indoor light.

  Two more headlights swung up the drive. A yellow Jeep scraped past the Eucalyptus trees that lined the dirt and gravel road. It screeched to a halt beside the picnic table. My elderly piecrust maker flung open her door and stepped out.

  Charlene blinked, her blue eyes widening. Her curling loops of marshmallow-fluff hair stirred in the breeze. Then she strode to my doorstep. “Forgot you were coming today,” she said.

  “You Charlene McCree?” He thrust the clipboard at her.

  “The one and only. You need me to sign?” She reached into the pocket of her green knit, tunic-style jacket. Charlene looked remarkably put together for the hour, not a white hair out of place. She was even wearing lipstick, a bright slash of salmon.

  “At the Xes,” the man said.

  “Charlene, what’s going on?” I asked.

  She squinted at the board. “I can’t read this out here. I’ll sign inside.”

  Annoyed, I stepped aside, and she climbed into my tiny home-sweet-shipping-container. Since she was also my landlord, she had certain privileges.

  I struggled for patience. “Charlene, what’s going on?” I repeated.

  “Yurt delivery for the goddess circle,” she said. “Sorry I forgot to tell you about it, Val.”

  “Goddess circle?” I bleated. “What does that have to do with a yurt? And it’s four a.m.!”

  “Four-oh-six,” she said. “You’d better get cracking if you want to get to Pie Town by five.”

  “What goddess circle?” I asked.

  “They come here every year.” She drew a pair of reading glasses from her pocket and set them on her nose. “I forgot to mention it to you. It’s only for the week.”

  “What’s for the week?”

  “The circle.” She sat at the tiny table between my kitchen and “living” area and signed the papers.

  “This one of those tiny homes?” The delivery man stood in the open doorway and scanned the miniature kitchen, the fold-up table, and built-in desk.

  “Yes,” I said and turned to Charlene. “But why is he delivering the yurt here?” My lips flattened. “At four in the morning!”

  She sighed with exaggerated patience. “Because, this is where they have the circle.”

  “Here? In my yard? At four?” I blew out my breath and tried for some Zen. Charlene was more than my employee/landlady. We were friends. It wasn’t her fault my rude awakening had sent me into a freaky panic spiral. Charlene’s zaniness was a part of her charm—when I didn’t want to throttle her.

  “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with the time.” She p
eered over her glasses at me. “And I couldn’t cancel. The goddess gals booked it before you moved in. But I am sorry I forgot to tell you.”

  I gaped. Charlene had apologized twice this morning. She never apologized. “But—”

  “You’d better get dressed.”

  Confounded, I stumbled to my sleeping area and grabbed a Pies Before Guys t-shirt and pair of worn jeans from the closet.

  Hidden behind my bookcase partition, I shuffled into the clothes. What the Hades was a goddess circle? It was probably totally normal for freewheeling Northern California, and I didn’t think Charlene would plant a pagan cult on my lawn, but . . .

  I’d find out soon enough. Plus, I was embarrassed by my overreaction to the truck’s arrival—first thinking it was an earthquake and then thinking . . . I didn’t know what I’d been thinking, only that I’d been in the throes of a full-blown anxiety attack.

  In my defense, it had been four a.m., a confusing time under the best of circumstances.

  The rumbling from the truck engine stopped, engulfing my tiny house in blessed silence.

  I brushed my hair into a bun and dashed on some light makeup. Hopping into my comfy tennis shoes, I edged around the bookcase.

  Charlene stood, arms akimbo, in front of the closed front door and frowned. “You’re wearing that?”

  I looked down at my t-shirt, jeans, and tennies. “I always wear this.”

  “You can’t wear a Pies Before Guys shirt to work.”

  “Why not?” Pie Town was my bakery, and traditionally, the owner got to set the rules. Besides, we were selling the Pies Before Guys tees, so wearing it was free advertising.

  “Because it doesn’t say Pie Town.”

  “It does.” I pointed to my left breast. “Right here, like I’ve told you over and over again.”

  “That’s too small to see,” she said.

  I covered my breast defensively. “They’re not too small.”

  “Not your boobs, the logo! I don’t know why you made it so tiny. Don’t you have any earrings?”

  “Why would I need earrings to bake pies?”

  “And there’s a stain on that shirt.”

  “There is?” I stretched the bottom hem forward and examined the shirt. It looked fine to me.

  She brushed past and rummaged through my tiny closet. “You must have something besides t-shirts.”

  “Tank tops.”

  “Wear this.” She tossed a pink Pie Town t-shirt to me, and I caught it one handed. “I’ll wait outside.”

  I gave up looking for the stain and changed my shirt. Since it was chilly outside, I slipped into a Pie Town hoodie too. I grabbed a banana for breakfast and joined Charlene beside the picnic table.

  Three men set out long, curving red poles near the cliff.

  My face screwed up. If Charlene had forgotten the yurt delivery, why had she appeared on my doorstep at this hour? “Since when do you care about how I look?” I tugged my hood, which had gotten folded beneath the back of my collar.

  “A lady should take care of her appearance,” she said.

  My cheeks warmed with realization. Was Gordon Carmichael back in San Nicholas? The detective and I’d had a series of dating misfires. Then he’d been sent to Wyoming for some Homeland Security training. Was he going to surprise me at the restaurant? Maybe I should wear earrings.

  “You’re the owner of Pie Town. If you don’t care about how you look, why should your employees?” She opened the door to her yellow Jeep. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Something was definitely up. Resigned to whatever romcom Charlene had planned for Gordon and me, I climbed into my Pie Town van. It was nearly as old as I was, but it was the exact color of our pie boxes and had been love at first sight.

  I followed her taillights down the narrow track to the main road. We wound through the hills, cobalt in the pre-dawn light, and sped onto Highway One, deserted at this early hour. A few minutes later, we cruised into San Nicholas.

  Main Street’s iron street lamps were dark, and my van swept through tendrils of delightfully creepy ground fog. I loved San Nicholas at this hour, when the beach town was hushed and the morning full of possibility.

  In the brick alleyway behind Pie Town, I frowned. An unfamiliar white van sat in my spot. Charlene’s Jeep was parked in hers, which meant I had to circle the block. Clearly, the rocky start to my morning had been a bad omen. I only hoped a stolen parking spot would be the least of my worries.

  Scowling, I drove around the brick building and found a spot on a nearby street.

  I strode down the alley to Pie Town’s rear, metal door.

  Charlene clambered from the Jeep and arched her back, stretching. “You ready?”

  I thumbed through my keys. “Ready for what?”

  “Another day making the best pies on the Northern California coast!”

  I yawned and fitted the key to the lock. “Golly gee, yes!” As much as I appreciated Charlene’s enthusiasm, it was five in the morning. Yawning, I pushed open the door to my industrial kitchen.

  A silhouette shifted in the darkened room.

  I gasped, rearing backward, and a hand grasped my arm.

  CHAPTER 2

  I shrieked. “Agh!”

  A second woman’s scream echoed inside the kitchen.

  A light flared, and I threw up my free hand to shield my face.

  The hand released me, and the kitchen’s overhead fluorescents flickered to life.

  Three people stood in my kitchen—a woman and two men.

  The woman, with a headset strapped over her mid-length silver hair, reeled backwards and bounced against the work island. She brandished a boom mic. It swung low over my head, and I ducked.

  “Good gad.” She shook her head, and her cat-shaped earrings danced. An olive-green messenger bag was slung over her photographer’s vest. Her mouth set in a pained smile.

  My hands unclenched. “What are you doing in my kitchen?!” I scanned it for signs of damage. Door to the flour-work room: closed. Utensils: neat in their ceramic crocks and simple wooden shelves built into the wall. Metal cupboard doors: shut. “Who are you?”

  Behind her, a man with graying hair, wearing a khaki photographer’s vest, aimed a video camera at me. A mic and a light protruded from the camera. Beneath his vest, his striped, knit shirt strained across his gut.

  A second man, of the tall-dark-and-handsome variety, stepped forward beside the industrial oven. He smiled, his teeth blazing white against his goatee. “Valentine Harris, congratulations,” he said in a plummy British accent.

  I stared, frozen. The man was Nigel Prashad, consultant to reality TV bakeries, and every baker’s dream. “You . . . you . . .”

  “Yes,” he said. “I am an actual British person.” And his blue golf shirt and brown slacks had the razor-sharp creases to prove it.

  Charlene sighed. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

  “What are you doing here?” I gulped. “With cameras?”

  “Only one camera.” The gray-haired man kept his eye glued to the viewfinder.

  “Can’t blame you for being gobsmacked,” Nigel said. “It’s not every day you meet someone from the telly, but we asked your partner to keep our little secret.” He rocked on his loafers and beamed, as if he’d offered me a particularly delightful Christmas treat.

  My brow creased. Partner? What partner?

  “It’s Pie Hard,” Charlene said hastily. “The TV series. They’re going to feature us on the show!” She danced on her toes, giddy.

  “What? That’s . . . What?” Frantic, I looked about the packed kitchen for something my morning brain could grasp.

  A thin brunette woman with blond highlights leaned against the metal counter. She examined a loose button on her chef’s jacket. Ilsa Fueder! The Ilsa Fueder, famous French pastry chef and reality TV star! In my kitchen! “Ilsa Fueder,” I whispered.

  Nigel smoothed his shirt down, revealing the contours of his washboard abs. “My apologies, I should have introduced my
self. I’m Nigel Prashad.” He winked.

  OMG. This really was Pie Hard. The reality show brought their pastry chef/business consultant team into failing bakeries and used tough love to whip them into shape. Nevertheless . . .

  I pressed a hand to my mouth, heat flaming my cheeks. Why did they think my bakery was in trouble?

  Nigel clapped my shoulder. “That’s right! You’ve won a free consultation with Ilsa and me to save your struggling pie shop. And from what your partner described, it sounds like we didn’t come a moment too soon. Ilsa? Would you like to add anything?”

  The French chef glanced around my kitchen. “Don’t like.” She flipped her wrist, as if brushing aside the cobwebs of a nightmare.

  What was there not to like? I turned to Charlene. “Struggling?” I choked out. “Partner? There’s been a mistake.”

  Charlene smiled brightly. “No mistake. They’re really here.”

  If my septuagenarian pie crust maker had brought them here, they’d been lured under false pretenses. “Charlene—”

  “We need a minute,” Charlene said to the crew. “The delightful surprise is too much for her at this hour.” Grasping my arm, she steered me to the flour-work room. She dragged me inside and slammed the door shut.

  A long, butcher-block table stretched down the center of the room. Along one wall, a giant metal mixer and other pastry-making contraptions lined a metal countertop.

  I crossed my arms. “Are you crazy? We’re not a failing business. They’re going to learn the truth, and then we’ll look like idiots. On TV! Why didn’t you talk to me about this?”

  The air conditioner rumbled to life. The flour-work room was temperature controlled to keep the dough exactly right. “I had to keep it secret,” she said, “or they wouldn’t go ahead. They wanted to film your thrilled reaction.”

  “Do I look thrilled?”

  “We’ll be on TV!”

  “And when did we become partners? Business partners, I mean,” I hastily amended. Charlene and I were partners in a sort of armchair detective club we’d inherited, the Baker Street Bakers. Unfortunately, Charlene didn’t have the armchair crime-solver mentality. We always seemed to take a more active role, which usually led to all sorts of uncomfortable situations. For me.