Live and Let Pie Page 13

  “And.” Lance looked bored. He stared at the band who had started warming up on the green stage. They had no reprieve from the sun. It glinted off their instruments.

  “And, if we’ve learned anything from the past, it’s that you can’t judge a book by its cover. I agree that Gretchen doesn’t look like a typical murderer, but there’s a lot of evidence stacking up against her.”

  “Evidence? Ha!” Lance threw his head back in a mock laugh. “Hearsay. I’ll tell you what we really know about this case.”

  I waited for him to continue.

  “It needs us. The case is calling. Can’t you feel it drawing you in?”

  I must have looked skeptical because Lance tapped my chin. “Angles, darling. I do believe that Gretchen is being falsely accused. Perhaps even set up. She needs our help.”

  “How are we going to help?”

  “For starters why don’t you scoot over to the shelter again with another stack of sweets. Get her talking.”

  “Okay, and what are you going to do?”

  “I have some sources that should be quite helpful in our quest.”

  “Lance, this isn’t a quest. Someone is dead.”

  He stabbed his chest. “Ouch. As your best friend and dearest confidant, I would have thought that you would understand me better by now. I jest as a coping mechanism. Nothing more.” He dropped his affected manner of speech. “I assure you, Juliet, after all that I’ve been through—that we’ve been through—I want nothing more than to help the police figure out whodunit and see them brought to justice. Are you with me?”

  I couldn’t refuse his sincerity. “I’m with you.”

  “Excellent.” He blew air kisses at each of my cheeks. “Now, run along, and let’s reconvene over cocktails later. Ta-ta.”

  Once Lance was on the trail of an investigation there was no chance of deterring him. I returned to Torte feeling more confused. My talk with Thomas had made me think that Gretchen was the most likely suspect, but after chatting with Lance I wasn’t sure. I distracted myself by sharing the good news on the giveaways with Bethany and Steph. They were jubilant and decided to head out after their shifts to shoot some videos at each of the businesses. I was happy to see them enthused about the project.

  By late afternoon the dining room had cleared out and most of the staff had gone home. Sterling and I sat down to look through catalogs for an ice-cream case and ice-cream-making equipment. As part of his new role at Torte he would be taking on concrete production and helping me set a rotating weekly lunch menu.

  “I’ve come up with a few recipe ideas,” Sterling said, handing me a sketchbook with pencil drawings of his vision of the ice-cream counter with colorful swirls of smooth and creamy custards.

  “These are fantastic sketches. I knew you had a talent when it came to words, but I didn’t know you were such an artist.”

  “Steph drew those,” Sterling said, flipping to the next page. It was covered with notes and measurements. “The recipes are mine. Like we talked about, I came up with five standard flavors and then we can offer seasonal specials.”

  “Excellent.” Sterling’s flavor combinations had my mouth watering. His summer concrete line included a strawberry lime and basil; lemon with chunks of crunchy gingersnaps; milk chocolate with a touch of chipotle, honey and sea salt; and vanilla double cream. Our concretes would be made fresh daily.

  A concrete (or frozen custard) is a smooth, silkier version of ice cream. It’s made with butterfat and egg yolks. The key difference between a concrete and ice cream has to do with the amount of air beaten into it. A custard achieves its delicious creaminess through a low overrun. The more air that an ice cream contains, the coarser the texture. Ice cream gets its name because of the ice crystals that form in the churning process. We wanted our concretes to be silky smooth without any ice chunks.

  “These sound so good that I want to rip out the page and eat it.”

  “Don’t do that, Jules,” Sterling teased. “Hopefully there’s something in the menu for everyone. If not, I’m sure we’ll get feedback and requests.”

  “I’m actually formulating a request list in my head right now.”

  “Hey, are we going to revive Sunday Suppers?” Sterling asked. “I know they’ve been on hold during construction, but your requests reminded me that we’ve had a bunch of people asking if we’re going to do another one soon.”

  “Thanks for the reminder. Yes. I definitely want to bring them back, and we should put one on the calendar, as long as you’re still willing to help.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been craving chicken cacciatore. My mom used to make a version of it for my birthday every year. It’s a great summer dish. We could serve that over noodles, with field greens and some rustic Italian bread.”

  “And don’t forget about the concretes. Let’s debut them at the next Sunday Supper. It will be great marketing—word of mouth.”

  “Literally.” Sterling chuckled.

  “You’re quick.” We finalized a date for the supper, ordered an ice-cream case, and I gave Sterling the green light to proceed with testing the concrete flavors. Sunday Suppers had been one of my first initiatives when I took over Torte. The concept was simple. Guests paid a flat fee for a three-course dinner, including dessert. We served everything family style, encouraging strangers to mingle. They’d been such a hit that we had had to create a waiting list for the last one. Planning a new Sunday Supper was yet another thing to look forward to.

  After everyone left for the evening, I turned on some salsa music, poured myself a glass of earthy malbec from Uva, and jotted some thoughts about Edgar’s murder in my cake sketchbook. My list of suspects included Gretchen, Stella, Pam, and Malcolm. At the moment Gretchen sat at the top of the list. She had a motive and had been seen at the crime scene, but like Lance I couldn’t reconcile Gretchen’s do-gooder personality with murder. I wanted to talk to Stella. My initial, albeit brief, interaction with her had left a bad taste in my mouth. Her cold, biting personality matched that of a murderess, but that wasn’t exactly fair. I knew nothing about her, other than that she was a successful real estate developer. Pam was an even less likely suspect in my mind. She was a friend and Nightingales was one of Ashland’s most beloved bed-and-breakfasts. However, I had to put aside my personal biases. Pam had motive for killing Edgar. Both the proposed homeless village and tiny-house development would directly impact her business. The last suspect on my short list was Malcolm. I wondered how well Lance knew him. Could there be an outside chance that Malcolm had killed Edgar to ensure his position at OSF? It seemed unlikely, but not outside the realm of possibility.

  I savored my wine. What if I was approaching this wrong? Maybe there was another motive for killing Edgar. What if his death had nothing to do with his property? I thought of the recovered skull of George Mill. I couldn’t discount the fact that the two murders might be connected. My imagination ran wild. I needed another theory besides Edgar being the killer and one began to emerge.

  What if Edgar knew something about George’s murder? Maybe the killer struck to keep him quiet after all these years. Edgar would have been in his early thirties when George was killed. Could he have seen something? Witnessed the actual murder?

  But why would he have stayed quiet for decades? I rationalized with myself.

  Yet it did seem like a remarkable coincidence that two murders had occurred in our small corner of Southern Oregon within days of each other. Yes, technically one of the murders was linked to the past, but what were the odds that Ashland would be the site of killings? Tomorrow I would ask the Professor if they were looking for any potential connections between the two.

  I made a note in my sketchbook and finished the last sip of my wine. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a warm peachy tone on the plaza. I made up my mind on the spot to take a short walk past Edgar’s property before calling it a night. What harm could come of that?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one
with that idea. When I arrived at the vacant lot I spotted Stella and Gretchen arguing in front of the FOR SALE sign. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but they were debating so loudly it was impossible not to overhear their conversation.

  “This property is officially off the market,” Stella said as she yanked the sign from the ground. She lost her footing in the process. Her strappy high-heeled sandal stuck in the grass, causing her to flail her arms to regain her balance.

  “No,” Gretchen wailed. “You don’t understand. The property is supposed to be ours. Edgar promised.”

  “Edgar ‘promised’ everyone who walked by a piece of this land. He probably offered it up to that herd of deer.” She pointed to a family of deer nibbling on the lawn across the street. “I have orders to take the lot off the market, and that’s what I’m doing. You’ll have to take it up with Edgar’s trust.” With that she propped the sign in one hand and marched toward her SUV.

  Gretchen dropped to her knees. She ran her fingers through her mop of wild curls. If it weren’t for the look of utter despair on her face she reminded me of a reporter on a nature TV show the way she sat in the grass in her khaki shorts and white T-shirt, staring at the herd of deer.

  I waited until Stella had zoomed up the alleyway and out of sight before approaching Gretchen.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  She looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. “What am I going to do? I can’t believe Stella would do something so shady and try to rip this property right out from under me.” She took off her bulky frames to wipe away tears. “I mean it’s not even me. It’s people in our community who are in desperate, desperate situations. That woman is so callous. She doesn’t even care. It’s all about the money.”

  I offered her a hand.

  Once she was on her feet, she blinked a few times. In a matter of seconds her tears turned into fury. “She’s not going to get away with this. I won’t let her. I poured blood, sweat, and more blood into this. I’m not going to stand by idly and let her walk all over our unhoused community. She will not get away with this. I can’t let her for the sake of the children. Think of the children. I’ve got to talk some sense into her,” Gretchen wailed.

  Gretchen’s reaction gave me pause. Had I misread her? Maybe Thomas was right.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?” she snapped.

  For a minute I thought about taking off. I didn’t want to have a confrontation with a potential killer, but then again Gretchen was so distraught that this might be my best chance to learn something.

  “It’s Edgar’s murder,” I started.

  Gretchen cut me off. “Wait, wait, wait … hold up. Are you saying you think that I killed Edgar?”

  How had she jumped to that conclusion so quickly?

  “I didn’t kill Edgar. Why would I kill him, when he had offered me the biggest financial donation that the homeless council has ever received?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She ran her fingers through her wild curls. “After many discussions and days and days of negotiations Edgar finally agreed to gift us the lot. That wasn’t even my end goal. I was hoping to negotiate on price, but I never imagined that he would donate the entire property. He was a hard man to read, but he had a kind heart. You know what finally pushed him over the edge?”

  I shook my head.

  “That family you met last night. Edgar met them too and came to the conclusion that he wanted to leave Ashland a lasting gift. A legacy. He didn’t have family. This was his opportunity to do something generous—we are going to name the community after him. It will have a plaque and a small water feature dedicated to him.”

  She was speaking so fast that her words blurred together. Edgar had intended to donate the property? I couldn’t believe it.

  “Stella was furious. She’s not used to losing out on any deal—big or small—and especially to a measly little nonprofit like us. I saw them fighting. She probably did it. He broke the news that he was going to bequeath the land to us and she flipped out and killed him. I know it. I know she did. We can’t let her get away with this.”

  “Slow down.” I placed my hand on her forearm. “Take a nice long breath. Let’s go find Thomas or the Professor and fill them in on this. It’s going to be really important for their investigation.”

  Gretchen’s shoulders heaved as she attempted to take a deep breath.

  “Do you have anything about the deal in writing? Did you and Edgar finalize the deal or was it only a verbal agreement?” I guided her toward the sidewalk.

  “The deal is final. At least it’s final in my mind. He signed an initial letter of intent, but we hadn’t had a chance for our lawyers to go over the paperwork. Why?”

  I didn’t know if I should tell her that Thomas and the Professor considered her a suspect.

  “Do the police think I did it?” she wailed. Was she some kind of secret mind reader? It was as if any thought that passed through my mind landed straight in Gretchen’s head.

  “You’ll have to talk to them, but like I said, this is vital information, and could be instrumental to their investigation.”

  “So they do think I killed him. My God. I have to go to my office and get that paperwork.”

  “I can walk with you, if you’d like?”

  “No. I’m fine.” She brushed me off. “Just keep your eye on Stella. She killed him—I swear.”

  She ran off without another word. I stood in the empty lot feeling dumbfounded. Was Gretchen to be believed? If Edgar had had a change of heart and decided to give the land to the homeless council then her motive to kill him disappeared. While I tried to make sense of what I had just learned a voice interrupted my thoughts.

  “You back for another look?” It was Henry, Edgar’s neighbor.

  “No. I’m just passing by,” I replied.

  Henry was dressed in painting clothes again.

  “You look like you’re in the middle of a project.” I noted the paint splatter on his hands.

  He stared at his overalls. “Nah. This is my everyday wear. Doing some touch-ups on an old canvas that refuses to become what I want it to. That’s how it goes most days.”

  “I didn’t realize you were an actual painter. I guess I assumed that you were painting your house when we met earlier.”

  “Yep. I’m doing that too. I can’t stay away from the paint. My late wife used to say it was because of the fumes.” He gave me a toothy grin. “You want to come see? It’s not a gallery or anything fancy, but I’ve got a few canvases lying around.”

  “Sure.” I was interested in seeing Henry’s work, but more importantly maybe I could get some more information about Edgar from him.

  When we passed Edgar’s house, Henry stopped and gave a solemn nod of respect.

  “You were good friends, weren’t you?” I asked.

  “I don’t know about friends. Edgar liked to argue about anything and everything, but he was a good neighbor. Stuck by me when my wife died last year. Told me the cure for heartache was a hefty shot of gin. We’ve had one every night for the past year. It’s not going to be the same without him.” He cleared his throat twice.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Henry picked at a piece of dried paint on the top of his palm. “When you get to be my age death is inevitable. I’m thankful for every day that I wake up breathing.”

  “You look pretty energetic to me.”

  “Don’t say that to an old man like me.” He put his hand over his heart and pounded his chest. “You’ll make the old ticker go crazy.”

  I laughed.

  Nightingales sat to our right. I pointed at Pam’s English garden in the backyard. The rear of the Victorian was as ornate as the front of the house. “Pam mentioned that she’s been talking to the neighbors about trying to preserve these older homes and make sure that Edgar’s property isn’t turned into a new development.”

  Henry reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of hard candies. “Peppermint
?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Peppermints are my vice. And gin.” His laugh was throaty. “Pam is one woman I wouldn’t want to dance with,” Henry continued with the peppermint on one side of his teeth. “She’s gonna get her way if you ask me. She’s talked to everyone on both sides of the block. Told me I can have extra parking, whatever I want. Sounds good to me. I don’t exactly want a big eyesore to go up there.”

  He stopped and turned around. “I like having a view of the hills and Mount Ashland.” He pointed to the far mountain range.

  “I never realized you could see Mount Ashland from here,” I said.

  “Yep. She’s a real beauty in the winter. It would be a shame to lose that view.”

  He showed me into his workshop in his garage. There were canvases on every wall. To my surprise, Henry’s style was very modern. Each piece used bold colors with stark, often angry brushstrokes. I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, but I had imagined bucolic Impressionist-style paintings of Ashland’s surrounding hillsides and mountains. Henry’s artwork looked as if it could be displayed in the lobby of a swanky futuristic hotel. I chided myself for judging Henry based on his age.

  I wandered through the garage. Some of the paintings had to be over twelve feet long and six feet tall. There were a variety of canvases in various stages. Henry had paintbrushes and jars of paint in nearly every corner of the workshop. Splattered paint coated the floor. I got the sense that Henry became completely immersed in the process when working on a new painting.

  “These are really impressive. Some of them are huge. How did you manage to lift them?”

  Henry shrugged. “Easy. They are light. It’s only canvas and a thin strip of framing.”

  “Still, I’m impressed. I like how you can see the brushstrokes in some of them.”

  He looked pleased with the compliment. “Glad you noticed. Most people don’t. That’s on purpose. I wanted to represent the angst of our culture. Those thick, ugly strokes pull out the darkness that simmers just below the surface. Ever since I was a kid I’ve been interested in our shadow side. The piece of ourselves we try to mask. You can’t mask the darkness when painting. It finds a way out.”