Pies Before Guys Page 9

  “They both did great,” I lied, since I hadn’t been paying much attention.

  “I’m glad,” Dorothy said. “And I’m glad for Michael as well. Even though these things were old hat for him by now, at least he went out on a high note, doing what he loved.”

  I fiddled with my wineglass. “You know . . . I had some cancellations for a pie-making class next Thursday. Would you like two tickets? For you and Aidan? It’s a fun class, and you get to keep the pies.”

  She was silent for a long moment. “Yes. I can’t speak for Aidan, but I’ll ask him if he wants to come with me. I could use the distraction.”

  “Great!” I dug a business card from my clutch and wrote the time and date of the class on the back. “If you can’t make it, please let me know, so I can give the tickets to someone else.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  We finished our drinks and said our goodbyes. Charlene and I walked into the parking lot, and the wind tossed my dress. I pressed it against my legs with my white clutch.

  “I liked her,” Charlene said.

  “Me too. But I don’t suppose we can count her out.”

  “No. We should have pushed her harder, but . . .”

  “But we liked her.” Gordon would have done better. He wouldn’t have cared if he liked her or not. The police really were better at these things, I thought glumly. They knew to separate witnesses when questioning them and . . .

  Oh.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlene asked.

  “Maybe we should invite our suspects to Pie Town on separate days?”

  “Why?”

  “Because by throwing all our suspects together in one kitchen, we’re creating a powder keg.”

  She smiled. “Isn’t that what we’re counting on?”

  CHAPTER 10

  There are no wimps in bakeries. The bags of flour and sugar weigh fifty pounds each. All of us (except Charlene) were used to hefting them around.

  And then came Hunter.

  My assistant manager, Petronella, watched the bronzed teen. Hunter easily lifted a sack of flour onto his shoulder and strode through the kitchen. Muscles bulging, he ripped open the bag and dumped it into the bin, a barrel on wheels that could hold four sacks of flour.

  Hunter dumped too fast. A cloud of flour filled the kitchen. The teenager vanished into the cloud that coated the net over Petronella’s spiky black hair like snow.

  He emerged coughing and covered in white stuff. Hunter blinked, his startling blue eyes giving him a china-doll look. “Whoa. This isn’t toxic, is it?”

  “It’s flour,” I said through clenched teeth and glowered at the mess.

  Petronella shook her head, and flour drifted to the shoulders of her Pies Before Guys t-shirt. “You know where the broom is.” She sighed and brushed flour off her hairnet and shoulders as he ambled from the kitchen, leaving a white trail of footprints. “Honestly,” she said, “he does this every time. Is he making more work for himself intentionally?”

  I pulled a slice of strawberry-rhubarb pie from the microwave. “He’s learning.” And he was the only person willing to work cleanup for the pay I was offering.

  Petronella threw up her hands and took the pie. She stomped into the dining area, her motorcycle boots making more tracks on the linoleum.

  Worried, I turned off the big oven with the rotating racks. Abril had today off, so I hadn’t expected to see her. But it was late in the day, and if she had been questioned by the SNPD, surely she’d be free by now? I smoothed my apron and took the slice into the restaurant.

  Pie Town was delightfully crowded this Friday afternoon. It had been a warm, sunny day. A good portion of the Bay Area seemed to have shifted to the coast for one of the last glorious beach days of the year. My heart swelled. I loved September—summer’s last hurrah before fall and all things pumpkin spice took over.

  I brought the strawberry-rhubarb to the gamers’ pink corner booth. The engineering students argued good-naturedly with their pudgy ringleader, Ray, who’d apparently done serious damage to their gaming characters.

  “Here you go.” I slid the pie in front of the burly redhead.

  Ray flushed, turning crimson beneath his freckles. “Um, I’m sharing with Henrietta.”

  Henrietta, in khakis and a shapeless t-shirt, nudged him and grinned.

  Ray, sharing? Had the world gone topsy-turvy? I handed her an extra fork from my apron pocket. Maybe he was trying to lose weight? “Here you go.”

  “What’s happening with the murder?” Ray asked. “It was our college too, before we transferred, even if we weren’t in the English department. Maybe we can help, like before?”

  Ray and Henrietta had once become honorary members of the Baker Street Bakers on a case Ray had brought us. (So there was totally precedent for my brother helping out.) But I shook my head at Ray’s offer. “Only if you know any of Professor Starke’s teaching assistants.”

  The twentysomethings glanced at each other across the table.

  “I know an ex-TA,” Ray said, “does that count?”

  “An ex-TA of Professor Starke’s?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yeah, her name’s Brittany.” His broad brow creased. “I don’t know her last name. Do any of you guys?”

  They shook their heads.

  Ray brightened. “But I know where she’ll be tonight.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “The Father Serra statue off Two-Eighty.”

  “That’s . . . a weirdly clandestine spot,” I said.

  “You know,” he said, “because of the hat.”

  “I’m not from around these here parts.” I braced my fists on the hips of my apron. “You’ll have to explain.”

  “They do it every year,” Henrietta said. “Before the big robotics competition, the engineering team puts a hat with the college colors on the statue.”

  “What time will they be there tonight?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Some time after dark.”

  My brother walked into Pie Town, the bell over the door jingling. He looked around, his dark brows slicing downward.

  Charlene followed close behind him, and my breath quickened. What were they doing together?

  I dragged my gaze back to the gamers. “Some time after dark because they’re not supposed to be putting a hat on the statue. Got it. Thanks.” I hurried to Doran and Charlene. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “Have you heard from Abril?” he whispered.

  “Um, no. She’s not working today, but—”

  “She was arrested,” he said.

  “What? No. She was only brought in for questioning. There’s a difference.”

  “You knew?” Charlene glowered and adjusted Frederick, hanging limp over the shoulder of her mustard tunic.

  Uh-oh. “Abril set up the poetry reading in Pie Town,” I hedged. “She knew Professor Starke. It’s not that strange for the police to want to talk to her.”

  “All day? We’ve got to get her out,” Doran said.

  “You mean she’s not out yet?” I asked.

  He folded his arms across his chest, and his leather jacket squeaked. “Why do you think we’re here?”

  “Gordon’s in charge of the investigation,” I said. “He’ll be fair.”

  Charlene’s mouth flattened.

  I could see I was losing control of the situation. “The best way we can help Abril is by following our new lead.”

  “You follow it,” Doran said. “I’m going back to the station.” He strode from the restaurant, and the front bell jangled violently.

  “What new lead?” Charlene asked.

  What was he going to do? Glancing toward the closing door, I explained about Brittany and the engineers.

  Charlene nodded. “It’s a stakeout. I’ll get the chips and root beer.”

  * * *

  Charlene munched a chip, shooting barbecue-flavored shrapnel across the seat of the Pie Town van. I was starting to understand why she’d agreed to let me drive for on
ce.

  We sat parked, lights off, at the rest stop. Low spotlights in tufts of ornamental grasses up-lit the adobe-colored statue of Father Serra. The tonsured saint stretched one arm to the west, toward the black reservoir and the curves of dark hills and the ocean beyond.

  Pulse speeding, I shifted in my seat. I wasn’t worried about the engineering students. But we’d ignored the sign saying the rest area was closed after sunset.

  It was after sunset.

  We were scofflaws.

  “So,” Charlene said for the eighth time. “Abril’s being questioned by Gordon.”

  “Okay, fine.” I glanced in the rearview mirror, searching for red and blue lights. “I knew he was questioning her in advance. But he told me not to tell anyone.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you would have told Abril. Then we really would be in jail for interfering in an investigation, and Gordon would have gotten in trouble too.”

  “Traitor,” she mumbled through a mouthful of chips.

  I sputtered. “That’s not fair. I trust Gordon, and you do too. It’s not like he’s giving Abril the third degree. And why did you bring that fishing pole?” I jerked my head toward the back, where the pole lay between racks for delivering pies.

  “Not only the pole.” She unzipped the backpack at her feet and pulled out her pie-plate UFO. “I want a shot of a Pie Town UFO over Father Serra.”

  “At night?”

  “My phone takes excellent night shots.”

  Headlights streamed up the freeway exit, and my heart frog-jumped into my throat.

  Charlene’s arm jerked. Chips flew through the air. “Duck!”

  We scrunched down in our seats, and the lights swept across the dashboard.

  Car doors slammed.

  Charlene and I inched upward in our seats and peered through the windshield.

  Two students awkwardly opened a giant, green-and-white baseball hat between them. The thing was huge, but so was Father Serra’s head.

  I squinted up at his tonsured skull. His head was also at least twenty feet off the ground, and I didn’t see any ladders.

  “Let’s go.” Charlene opened her door and clambered from the van.

  I followed, quietly shutting my door.

  We approached the students, who seemed to be assembling some sort of cable and pulley system.

  “Where’s Pole C?” a slender young man whose head seemed too big for his body asked. His long fingers twitched. He reminded me of a praying mantis.

  His five friends looked at each other.

  “I thought you brought it,” the only woman in the group said, and she adjusted her green-and-white college hoodie.

  Brittany?

  “Hello,” I said, and they started.

  “We’re just putting a hat on Father Serra’s head,” Praying Mantis said. “It’s an innocent stunt. No one gets hurt.”

  Charlene snorted. “Not without Pole C, you’re not.”

  “We don’t care about the hat,” I said. “We—”

  “We have to go back for the pole,” the young woman said. “The pulley system won’t work without it.”

  “No,” Mantis said. “I’ll go back. You get the rest of the system assembled.”

  “And waste all that time?” Charlene asked. “Why don’t you just climb up there?”

  We craned our necks at Father Serra. A rough, low fence surrounded the statue, kneeling amid the ornamental grasses.

  “Are you Brittany?” I asked the girl. She was attractive in a dangerous sort of way, with deep-set, coffee-colored eyes; a long, straight nose; and olive skin. I blinked, suddenly recognizing her. She’d been at the poetry reading.

  She dragged a hand through her thick, black hair. “Yeah. Why?”

  “We’re friends of Ray MacTaggart,” I said.

  “Just climb onto the statue’s lap,” Charlene told Mantis, “then the arm, and from there you can easily get to his shoulder. Then the ear, and then the head. Easy-peasy.”

  “Or we can get Pole C,” he said.

  “Sure,” Charlene said, “stay all night. I’m sure none of the highway patrol will notice.”

  “I heard you worked for Professor Starke,” I murmured to Brittany.

  Brittany stiffened. “Yeah?” she asked cautiously.

  “We’d like to talk to you about him,” I said, “if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind,” she said. “And we’re busy.” She turned away from me and to the rest of the group.

  “What’s wrong with you boys?” Charlene jammed her hands on her hips. “When I was your age, I was getting up to all sorts of hijinks.” She flexed her arms.

  “We’re engineers,” a portly young man said. “We build things so we don’t have to get up to hijinks.”

  “You’re all chicken,” she said. “Why, Val could get up there in nothing flat.”

  I’d rather slam my hand in the pie oven. “No, I really don’t—”

  “And look at her,” Charlene continued. “No one could say she’s in shape.”

  “I’m a normal weight,” I said, my voice shriller than I liked.

  “Making the climb would be quicker,” Brittany said. “And it would reduce the odds of us getting caught.”

  Cars rumbled past on the nearby freeway below.

  “Then it’s agreed.” Charlene nodded. “Val will get your hat up there, and you’ll spill the dirt on Professor Starke.”

  “What?” I said. “I didn’t agree to that.”

  “Hm . . .” Brittany shook her head, her long hair cascading over her shoulders.

  Charlene grasped my elbow and tugged me toward the low fencing surrounding the statue. “It’s not that hard. Look. Just climb onto his lap, then the arm—”

  “I heard you the first time,” I said. “And I’m not spelunking on Father Serra’s statue. He’s a saint. It’s desecration or something.”

  She lowered her head and glowered beneath her white brows. “Oh, so all that talk about helping Abril was just talk. Abril, who’s sitting in jail. Abril, who’s never done anything bad to anyone. Abril, who bakes your—”

  “Okay, fine. If Brittany agrees, I’ll do it.” Stupid guilt.

  I looked a question at Brittany.

  Slowly, she nodded. “Deal.”

  I tugged down the hem of my Pie Town hoodie. Clambering over the fence, I strode to Father Serra’s sandaled feet. “I need a boost.”

  The engineers looked at one another.

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, come on.”

  “Well, you have put on a few pounds, Val,” Charlene said.

  “I have not! You”—I pointed to the largest engineer—“get over here.”

  He trudged closer.

  I climbed onto the statue’s foot and stretched, grasping the fold of Father Serra’s robe between his knees. “Let’s go.” I raised one foot.

  The engineer latticed his hands together and boosted me.

  Huffing, I wriggled onto the folds of the statue’s lap robes. I’d done it! I was a third of the way there. I turned. “Okay, hand me the . . .” And then I realized the problem. There was no way I could carry the hat onto his shoulder.

  “Someone else will have to get on the lap too,” Charlene said, “and hand you the hat when you get high enough.”

  There was some muttering. Finally, Brittany volunteered.

  I moved to the edge of the statue’s thigh and hauled myself onto his outstretched arm. I looked down and gulped.

  “Don’t look down,” Charlene called unhelpfully from below.

  I inched toward the shoulder and slowly stood, grabbing the statue’s earlobe. “Okay. Hand me the hat.”

  Brittany stretched, shoving the green-and-white fabric up to me. Keeping a vise grip on the rough earlobe with one hand, I leaned down and grabbed the hat.

  The engineers cheered.

  “Are you okay up there?” Brittany asked. “You look a little pale.”

  “It’s the spotlight,” I lied.
“I’m fine.” Or at least I would be once this stupid hat was in place. I pressed closer to the giant ear and blindly tossed one end of the fabric onto the head. It slipped down and crumpled atop me.

  “A little more to the left,” Charlene shouted.

  After three more attempts, I got the hat on and adjusted to everyone’s satisfaction. Grinning with relief, I turned and looked down at the group.

  “Catch!” Charlene hurled a spinning silver disk.

  Automatically, I lunged for the pie-plate UFO. It pinged off my fingertips, and I lost my grip on the ear.

  I staggered onto the statue’s arm and scrambled to get my footing. One foot skidded into empty air. I was falling.

  My shoulder hit something hard. Too terrified to scream, I gasped, grasping for a handhold. Rough concrete scraped my palm. I caught hold of something between two hands. My feet swung in empty air.

  “Ah!” Heart hammering, I dangled from Father Serra’s pointing finger.

  “Oh,” Charlene said. “That’s not good. Hold on, Val! Quick. One of you boys get on the lap. Get on the lap!”

  A siren wailed.

  “The cops!”

  The engineers scattered, leaping into their cars. They roared down the exit, Brittany’s silver Mustang the last in the line.

  A black-and-white police car and a familiar sedan rolled to a halt at the base of the statue.

  Gordon emerged from the sedan and looked up at me. “Let me guess. Someone left you hanging?”

  CHAPTER 11

  “There’s something I don’t understand.” Charlene perched on her wooden stool beside the door to the flour-work room. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the skylights and glittered off the metal counters. Cheerful Saturday chatter drifted from the dining room and into the kitchen.

  “Like, why weren’t we arrested?” I asked. “Or maybe, what made you think I’d catch that UFO? Or, why did I let you talk me into that stunt?” Movements jerky, I arranged a tongful of salad beside a slice of quiche Lorraine.

  “No, I understand all that. You parkoured through Graham’s front yard. Of course you’d climb Father Serra.” She ripped a loose thread from the cuff of her violently violet tunic. “What was Gordon doing at that rest stop? It’s miles outside his jurisdiction.”