The Quiche and the Dead

Book 1: Pie Town Mystery

by Kirsten Weiss

Genres: Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Crime & Mystery; humor; Cozy Mystery; culinary cozy

Synopsis

Is Val's breakfast pie the quiche of death?

Owning her own business seemed like pie in the sky to Valentine Harris when she moved to the coastal California town of San Nicholas, expecting to start a new life with her fiancé. Five months—and a broken engagement—later, at least her dream of opening a pie shop has become a reality. But when one of her regulars keels over at the counter while eating a quiche, Val feels like she's living a nightmare.

After the police determine the customer was poisoned, business at Pie Town drops faster than a fallen crust. Convinced they're both suspects, Val's flaky, seventy-something pie crust maker Charlene drags her boss into some amateur sleuthing. At first Val dismisses Charlene's half-baked hypotheses, but before long the ladies uncover some shady dealings hidden in fog-bound San Nicholas. Now Val must expose the truth—before a crummy killer tries to shut her pie hole.

Release date: October 31, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

All I could see was the dress. The ghost of weddings past, it swept above the checkered linoleum floor and rooted me in place. My heart twisted, leaving me breathless.

I jolted into motion. The quiche, forgotten, slipped sideways on my oven mitts. I steadied it and gaped through the kitchen window to the pie shop’s dining area. No. No, no, no.

Pushing through the swinging door, I intercepted Petronella, my young pie wrangler, before she could reach the cash register.

“Hey, I’ll take care of this,” I said.

Giving me a long look, Petronella shrugged. “Sure, boss.” She slouched toward the kitchen, the Om tattoo on her neck peeping beneath her black, pixie-cut hair.

I slid the quiche inside the glass case, nudging aside a potpie and a tray of rectangular hand pies, fruit-stuffed mini-pastries, fresh and flaky and buttery. My reflection wavered, the curved glass broadening my face, fading the blue of my eyes. Slipping off my mitts, I discarded them on top of the counter beside the day-old hand pies, discounted for the morning coffee crowd.

When I’d taken over the lease on the building in fog-bound San Nicholas, I’d gone retro with 1950s decor. Metal napkin dispensers and spiral menu holders lined up neatly on the pink laminate counter. Frilly white curtains hung in the windows. A dozen or so customers sat on faux-leather bar stools and in booths. Pie was an old-fashioned sort of dessert, and I’d tried to reflect that right down to the neon sign over the window to the kitchen: PIE TOWN! TURN YOUR FROWN UPSIDE DOWN AT PIE TOWN! The words curved inside a swoop of a smile. I gazed at the neon motto now. It never failed to turn my frown upside down, and it didn’t disappoint me now, even if my smile was strained.

Fran clacked toward the counter, my ivory-colored wedding dress slung over her slender arm. Its clear, plastic covering rustled across the floor. “Hi, Valentine.”

“Hi, Fran.” I eyed the dress, hurt and horror knotting my stomach. “How’s it going?”

She made a face. “Not too good, I’m afraid. I have to return your wedding dress.”

A bead of sweat trickled down my spine. “Oh. Well, that’s okay, thanks anyway.” I reached for the gown.

She didn’t budge, dangling the dress out of my reach. “I tried everything I could think of to sell it, but there were no takers.”

Joe, the owner of the comic shop next door, swiveled on his bar stool. Gray head tilted, lips pursed, he regarded the gown, his glasses glinting beneath the overhead lamps.

“Wedding dresses are a tough sell these days,” she continued. “And I’m afraid most brides have long ago bought their gowns for the spring weddings.”

More customers looked our way.

“Hey, no worries,” I said. “You tried.” I stretched for the gown, my fingertips brushing the plastic sleeve.

A thick-waisted woman seated at the counter brayed with laughter, and I blinked, feeling wobbly. Why was I being so stupid about this? The woman had probably read something funny in the paper spread open before her. She wasn’t laughing at me.

Fran’s chin dipped toward her ample chest. “Part of the problem is the nature of selling things online. Especially with a wedding dress, women want to see it, touch it, try it on. . . .” She trailed off, unmoving.

“Er, do I owe you any money?” The only people in Pie Town who weren’t staring at us now were some college kids, overflow from Joe’s comic shop next door. They played a game involving elves and orcs in the corner booth, their dice rattling across the table.

Joe rose from his stool and slid along the counter to the metal coffee urn. Yawning, he watched us beneath bushy white eyebrows.

“No, I’m commission only, remember?” she asked. “But I did give it my best.”

“I know you did,” I said, “and I really appreciate it. Here, let me take that off your hands.” I made another futile grab for the dress.

“It’s such a shame,” she said. “It’s a beautiful gown, elegant, tasteful. I did explain in the online ads that it was never worn, but people want new for weddings.”

Joe sidled closer. He took a sip of the coffee and made a face, his wrinkles deepening. Cripes, was the coffee off now too?

“That’s me,” I said, “full of good taste. If I can’t pay you, can I at least offer you a slice of pie?” I willed Fran to hand me the dress and leave. We could do a hostage exchange, pie for gown.

She patted her sleek stomach. “I couldn’t. Not before lunch.”

“To go then?” I asked. Let this end, let this end, let this end.

She handed the dress through the counter opening, and my shoulders slumped. At last.

“No, thank you,” she said. “And good luck selling that dress. Someone will love it. It’s gorgeous.” Waggling her fingers at me, she strolled out the door.

I blew out a shaky breath, folding the bulky dress over one arm.

Joe cleared his throat. “You selling breakfast pies now?” He pointed at the quiche.

“What?” I blinked, hugging the dress against my white and pink Pie Town apron. “No. I made that as a welcome gift for our new neighbor, Heidi’s Health and Fitness.” Pie Town was only five months old, a relative baby. I’d been so intent on starting up my new business that, while I knew most of my customers well enough to exchange a joke or cheerful greeting, I hadn’t made any real friends yet. I knew Heidi was roughly my age, twenty-eight, and she was a business owner like me. I didn’t think I could go wrong with a quiche in one of Charlene’s melt-in-your-mouth crusts as an introduction.

Joe grinned, exposing a missing molar. “She’s not going to take it.”

“What?” I asked, still reeling from the return of the wedding dress. I could have avoided this carnival of pain if I’d picked the thing up myself. But I’d kept putting it off, hoping the gown would just go away, get sold, and I wouldn’t have to think of it and my failed engagement.

It hadn’t.

“Our new neighbor,” he said. “You met her?”

“Um, no, not yet. But her grand opening is today. I figured I’d head over there when I take my break. Want to come?”

“I beat you to it. And she’s not the sort to eat a breakfast pie.”

“Technically, it’s a quiche, and it’s healthy, with spinach, squash, and a bit of goat cheese.” I’d even substituted almond milk, and you couldn’t taste the difference. Pie was so versatile.

His nose twitched. “Another one of your mother’s recipes?”

I smiled. Of Pennsylvania Dutch stock, my mother had not been the quiche and goat cheese type. But many of her pie recipes had been in the family for years, and she’d been my inspiration for Pie Town. “I adapted it from a magazine.”

“I’ll bet you that pie that Miss Heidi turns her nose up at your offering.”

“Why would she? Even if she’s not into it, maybe her staff will enjoy it.” The gown’s plastic wrapping stuck to my forearms, and I peeled myself free. The dress oozed defeat and broken dreams. No wonder no one wanted it.

“I’ve just got a feeling.” He poured himself a cup of coffee from the urn and dropped a dollar into the basket. In the mornings, Pie Town was self-serve, with an urn of coffee on the counter beside a tray of discounted, day-old hand pies. My team and I were in here early, baking, so it made a certain sense to open and let people serve themselves on the honor system. It seemed to be working. I liked to think of Pie Town as a “light service” establishment, but the reality was I couldn’t afford wait staff. Yet. I dreamed of the day I could.

“So is that a deal?” he asked.

I shifted my weight, eager to ditch the wedding gown in my office. “You’re on. Hey, I saw you making a face at the coffee. Is it okay?”

Looking into his cup, he furrowed his brows. “Coffee’s fine, I guess.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“I woke up with a weird taste in my mouth this morning. Everything’s off.” He wagged a finger at me and headed to the men’s room. “Now don’t forget our deal.”

Ha. This was one bet I’d win. Who was going to turn down a free pie? Hurrying through the swinging door, I passed the kitchen and strode into my office. Part of me wanted to jam the wedding gown into the wastebasket beside my desk. But I’d spent a lot of money on that dress, money I needed. I hooked its hanger on the top of a metal bookshelf. Stepping away, I gazed at its elegant folds, and my rib cage squeezed. I’d have looked good in that dress.

My office door banged open, and Charlene, my piecrust maker, stomped inside. A single, white curl escaped her hairnet. Adjusting her Pie Town apron over her track suit, she pursed her lips. Lines of bright red lipstick vanished into a mass of wrinkles. “I’m short a crust.”

“I took one for the quiche.” I did a double take. “Wait, you count the crusts?” Granted, we took our crusts seriously. I’d even built a temperature-controlled flour workroom to maintain the temperature of the butter. But tracking inventory was more organization than expected from Charlene.

“Of course I count the crusts. I didn’t become the best crust maker in San Nicholas without counting my crusts.” Adjusting her glasses, she peered at the wedding gown. “Huh. What’s that?”

I pressed one hand to my stomach. “Just a dress. Look, I’m sorry I messed up your count.”

Wandering to the dress, she trailed a gnarled hand over its plastic wrapping. “A wedding gown? Ah, I’ll never forget where I was the day I heard Princess Di had been murdered.”

“Murdered? She died in a car accident.”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

“But the police—”

“Can be bought,” she said, her white brows lowering.

I clammed up, having learned the hard way there was no budging my piecrust maker from a juicy conspiracy theory.

“What’s this wedding gown doing here?” she asked.

“I’m trying to sell it,” I said, attempting to keep my voice light. “Know anyone who’s getting married?”

“Why sell it? It’s lovely. You should keep it for your next wedding.” She glanced sideways at me. “Sorry. I guess in your case it would be your first.”

Thudding into the antique swivel chair behind my desk, I peered inside an open envelope that I knew was empty. I couldn’t imagine keeping the dress. In the first place, I couldn’t see myself ever getting married, not after the Mark Jeffreys fiasco. Second, even if I did get married, marrying one man in a dress that had been meant for another felt wrong. And third, if I didn’t need the money so badly, I’d have made a bonfire of the blasted thing.

“I’m sorry, Val. That was insensitive of me.” Charlene angled her head down. “I shouldn’t have said that after you got dumped and all.”

“I wasn’t dumped. It was mutual.”

“Of course it was.” She patted me on the shoulder. “And you’re still young.” She sighed. “Ah, to be your age and in love. How old are you anyway?”

“Old enough to know better.”

“Here.” Charlene pulled a phone from her apron pocket and snapped a picture of the dress. “I’ll post it to my Twitter followers. Maybe one of them will want to buy it.”

Elbows on the desk, I braced my skull in my hands. Great. Spectacular. Let’s prolong the agony via the Internet.

In the other room, the front bell rang.

“You’d better get that.” Charlene jerked her thumb toward the office door. “Petronella is on her smoke break.”

Eager to escape, I bolted out of my chair. It skidded backward and hit the wall. I didn’t hang around to inspect for damage, hustling to the counter.

A blond in a smooth-fitting, green workout suit strode through the dining area. Her ponytail bobbed, her long, lean dancer’s muscles moving smoothly, and I had to crane my neck to look up at her. On her jacket, Heidi’s Health and Fitness was emblazoned over her heart. She halted in front of the register.

Joe looked up from his bar stool, grinning, but his smile seemed a little pained.

“Hi.” Smiling, I laid a hand on the counter. “You must be from the new gym. I’m Val.”

“I’m looking for the owner.” The corners of her lips quirked, quick, professional, cool.

“That would be me. Welcome to the street. I was about to go to your grand opening.”

“I’m Heidi Gladstone.”

We shook hands, my knuckles grinding within her grip. Dropping my hand to my side, I flexed my fingers, restoring the circulation. “Thanks for stopping by. I baked a welcome gift for your grand opening,” I said, taking the quiche from beneath the counter.

“No thanks.” She shook her head. “I don’t do dairy.”

“I used almond milk.”

“Is there any cheese in it?”

“Only goat cheese.”

She reared away as if I’d suggested cyanide. “I don’t do dairy.”

Joe’s smile broadened.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the calming scents of baking fruits and sugar. “What can I do for you?”

“You can change your sign.” She pointed at the neon above me. “Turn your frown upside down? It encourages emotional eating. Sugar kills, and though it does give a quick emotional high, the satisfaction is fleeting. My customers are trying to rebuild their health. It’s not good for them to constantly see that negative reinforcement.”

I laughed. She was kidding. Of course. “Right. Good one!”

She frowned, a faint line appearing between her blond brows. “I’m quite serious.”

“But . . . it’s my slogan. It’s on everything—my sign outside, the menus, my business cards.” This had to be a joke.

“Exactly,” she said. “It’s a problem. Do you have any sugar-free pies?”

“My potpies are sugar free. And so is this quiche.”

“I advocate a vegan diet. I couldn’t eat a potpie or a quiche. Do you sell any sugar-free fruit pies?”

“Um, no.” Sugar free? I’d heard of such things, and this was California, where people could be more thoughtful about eating. But a sugar-free pie? That was unnatural and possibly un-American. Besides, fruit was full of natural sugars.

“I’ll bring some recipes by tomorrow.” She whirled, her ponytail coming within inches of my face, and marched out of the store. The bell over the entrance tinkled in her wake.

Joe wedged himself free of the bar stool and waddled to the counter, arms extended. “I’ll take that breakfast pie. And a fork.”

Sighing, I handed him the quiche. “All right. You win. Do you want a plate to go with that?”

“No. Why get a plate dirty? I’ll eat it from the tin.”

“How did you know she wouldn’t take it?”

Joe winked. “She kicked off her grand opening this morning with a lecture on the evils of gluten, lactose, and anything that tastes good. I figured at least one of those things would be in that breakfast pie.”

I nodded. I had yet to meet a gluten-free piecrust that really sang.

He rubbed his stomach. “And the spread was awful, all twigs and health food.”

“It is a gym.”

Petronella stomped toward me in her black motorcycle boots, her brows lowered in a slash, a pie in each hand. “Are you working the counter today or am I?”

“You are. Sorry. You can have it back.” I edged away.

“Because I need this job, and if you’ve decided you can do it for me—”

“Nope, you’re still chief pie wrangler. Have at it.” While I wasn’t exactly afraid of Petronella, both she and Charlene were protective of their duties. And since Charlene made the best piecrust in five counties, and Petronella could soothe the most ferocious customer, I’d learned to stay out of their way.

There was a choking sound, and we both snapped our heads toward the counter.

Joe’s fork clattered to the linoleum. Bowed over the quiche, he gripped his stomach.

I froze, brows squishing together, coldness piercing my core. Then Petronella and I raced around the counter, bumping into each other as we fought our way through the narrow passage beside the cash register.

Joe fell to the floor, writhing.

I fumbled in my apron pocket for my phone and called 9-1-1.

Petronella clasped one of Joe’s hands. “Joe! I’m here. Val’s calling an ambulance. What’s happening?”

Joe went limp, his eyes rolling back. He didn’t answer.

A uniformed police officer strode through the front entrance, setting the bell above it ringing. His square jaw tightening, he scanned the scene—customers gaping, Petronella and I gripping Joe’s arms and shoulders as he thrashed. The officer came to kneel beside us, placing a hand on Joe’s chest.

Joe went limp.

Patrons sat unmoving, their coffees and hand pies cooling. Even the gamers stopped rattling their twenty-sided dice across the table.

Charlene placed a floury hand on my shoulder.

“What happened?” The officer pressed two fingers to the side of Joe’s neck, checked his breathing.

Petronella choked out a sob.

“He was eating.” I motioned to his spot at the counter. “Then he grabbed his stomach and collapsed. He’s not choking—we checked.”

“Did you notice him behaving oddly before he collapsed?” the officer asked. Below the San Nicholas Police Department badge, his metal name tag read: Carmichael. “Anything unusual? Was he disoriented?”

“No,” I said, “but he did look a little tired.”

Officer Carmichael loosened Joe’s tie. “Okay, the paramedics will be here in a few minutes. They’ll need some space.”

I nodded.

Charlene tugged on my shoulder, and the two of us backed against the counter.

“Petronella,” I said in a low voice.

She squeezed Joe’s hand between hers. Rising, she joined us, wiping her hands on her apron. Charlene wrapped an arm around Petronella’s waist, comforting.

Paramedics raced inside. A fire truck wailed to a halt out front. More police crowded the dining area.

Officer Carmichael approached me.

“How is he?” I asked.

He glanced over his broad shoulder.

The paramedics shook their heads, folded up their equipment.

“I’m sorry,” the officer said. “Did you know him well?”

Petronella hurried into the kitchen. Shooting me a worried look, Charlene followed her.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, feeling rough traces of flour against my cheek. “He owns—owned—the comic shop next door. He liked to come in here for morning coffee.” I nodded toward the urn on the counter.

“And the breakfast pie? Was that his?” He nodded toward the partially eaten quiche on the counter.

“He won it from me in a bet this morning.”

Officer Carmichael smiled, his jade-colored eyes sympathetic. “You must have been close.”

“We joked around, but I can’t say I knew him well.” My hands fell to my sides. Five months as neighbors, and I knew Joe was a widower who liked morning coffee and pie and baseball. Did he have kids? If he did, they’d likely have been grown by now. “I’m sort of newish in town.”

“So am I. What brought you to San Nicholas?”

I looked at him, startled, then realized this wasn’t small talk. His pen hovered, poised and ready for action, over a notebook. But I wasn’t sure what to tell him. Mark had brought me here, to his hometown, but the words stuck in my throat. “I opened Pie Town five months ago.”

A tall, thin man in a brown suit strode to us. Slipping a leather wallet from his breast pocket, he flipped it open, displaying a San Nicholas PD badge. His face was narrow, hawkish, his eyes burning. “I’ll take it from here, GC.”

Officer Carmichael’s expression flickered. He nodded and walked a few steps away, turning and scribbling in his notepad.

“I’m Detective Shaw. You’re the owner?” the detective asked.

“Yes. I’m Val Harris.”

“You’ll have to close up for today. Everyone out, including staff. We’ll take your staff ’s and customers’ statements, and once we’re done, they can leave.” He snapped his fingers. “GC?”

Carmichael turned, silent.

“Did you take Miss Harris’s statement?” Shaw asked.

He nodded.

“Then you can go, Miss Harris,” Shaw said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

I twisted my hands in my apron. Joe. I couldn’t believe he was gone. And I couldn’t carry on, business as usual, after he had died in Pie Town. But the pie shop was my livelihood. I drew a breath, forcing myself to calm. The detective hadn’t asked me to close forever, only for the day.

“Is that a problem?” Detective Shaw asked, his tone careless.

“No,” I said. “Can you tell me the normal procedure in a case like this?” Asking how long I’d be closed seemed crass under the circumstances. But I needed to know.

His expression pinched. “This is a possible homicide. We’ll tell you when you can reopen. I take it he was eating here when he collapsed?”

“Yes.” A fist tightened around my heart. Homicide? Homicide!

“What, exactly?”

“A quiche.” I pointed to the counter.

“Who made it?”

“I did.”

“He eat anything else while he was here?”

“No,” I said, dizzy. “He had some coffee, but it’s self-serve from the same urn everyone else has been drinking out of.”

“Self-serve?” His lip curled. “You can go. And we’ll be taking the quiche,” he bellowed. Walking to the counter, he leaned over the quiche and sniffed it. “GC? Pack this up.”

All eyes followed Detective Shaw as he strode out the door. Officer Carmichael snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Grabbing the quiche, he followed.

Numb, I stumbled to my office and gathered my things into my backpack. Homicide. Suspected homicide. But my quiche wasn’t responsible for Joe’s death. Sure, they had to check, but . . . I’d made that quiche!

Thinking over how I’d prepared the quiche, I thumped into my desk chair. My fists clenched. Second-guessing myself was nuts. It wasn’t as if I kept rat poison lying around the kitchen on the off chance I’d like to use it to season a pie. I’d learned at a tender age never to keep anything inedible in my work area after spraying a cookie tin with starch rather than cooking spray. An entire batch of hot-cross buns had gone up in flames.

There was nothing wrong with that quiche.

A vision of Joe’s face, contorted with pain, floated . . .