Live and Let Pie Read online

  After I delivered the Green Goblin’s order, I headed for the homeless council headquarters. Inspired by Gretchen’s impassioned plea the other day, I had made a few dozen sugar cookie cutouts in fun summer shapes—a pineapple, bee, watermelon, flip-flop, pool float, sunglasses, and sea turtle. Each cookie had been flooded with royal icing and hand-piped with bright colorful frosting. We would sell them to our regulars, but I thought they would be a special treat for the children that Gretchen served.

  I stopped in my tracks when I saw Stella and Gretchen talking in hushed tones in front of the rustic building. I was too far away to hear their conversation. Gretchen had her back turned to me, and as usual Stella’s face was completely stoic. I considered interrupting them, but before I had a chance Stella motioned to her car, parked across the street near the entrance to Lithia Park. Gretchen hopped into the passenger seat and they sped off.

  Gretchen had been furious with Stella when I had seen her at Edgar’s lot. Where were they going? And what were they doing together? I was more than curious. Alas, there was no chance that I could chase after Stella’s car, so I dropped off the cookies instead.

  The same receptionist sat behind the desk when I entered the already warm building.

  “Another Torte delivery?” She grinned.

  “These need to stay pretty cool, otherwise the frosting will melt,” I said, handing her the box of decorated sugar cookies.

  “May I?” She lifted the lid. “These are the cutest. That pineapple. It’s adorable. The kids are going to love these. Thank you so much.”

  “They were fun to make.” I turned toward the door. “Did I see Gretchen taking off a minute ago?”

  The receptionist closed the lid to the cookie box. She glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Yes. It’s all hush-hush. She told me she had a very important meeting that might change our fate. I’m dying for her to come back so I can get more details.”

  “Fingers crossed.” I crossed my fingers in a show of support and left. Gretchen and Stella had scheduled a meeting about the homeless council’s future. What did that mean? Had Gretchen convinced Stella that Edgar wanted to bequeath the property to the council? But why would Stella be involved? Nothing added up.

  I let out a sigh and decided to take the long route back to Torte and turned toward the Shakespeare Stairs that led up to the OSF complex. I doubted that Lance would be in his office yet, but since I was already in the vicinity I might as well give it a shot. Maybe he could lend some insight to the puzzle. The bricks were awash with sunlight. A handful of company members rolled heavy carts between the theaters and a gardening crew filled a fresh layer of bark dust in the flower beds and trimmed the ivy snaking up the Elizabethan’s retaining wall.

  A couple of tourists posed in front of the historic open-air theater to take a selfie. “Would you mind?” the woman called. “I’m terrible at taking photos.”

  “I’m not much better,” I admitted. Then I set the empty delivery boxes on a bench and clicked a few photos of them. “Hopefully one of these works,” I said, handing her back her phone.

  She pointed at the delivery box. “Are you from Torte?”

  “I am.”

  “Our friends in San Francisco raved about your bakeshop. They said we had to do two things while in Ashland—see a show and eat at Torte.”

  “Have you been into the bakeshop yet?” I asked.

  “No.” She looked at her husband. “We were out for a morning walk and thought we’d come to Torte for breakfast after we burn off a few calories.”

  “It’s a good plan. We don’t skimp on the butter.” I grinned.

  “No one should ever skimp on butter,” her husband chimed in.

  “That’s our mantra.” I was about to pick up the delivery boxes when the woman gasped and grabbed my arm.

  “Is that an actor? Is he famous?”

  I turned and followed her eyes. Malcolm had just opened a side door on the Elizabethan theater. I could understand how she might have mistaken him for an actor. He had a black OSF baseball hat shielding his face and a cell phone glued to his ear. “No,” I said, returning my attention to the woman. “He’s not an actor, but keep your eyes open. You’ll spot familiar faces all over town.”

  The woman looped her arm through her husband’s. “How exciting. Maybe we’ll rub elbows with someone famous at Torte.”

  “It’s been known to happen.” I excused myself and went to track down Malcolm. He was unlocking the main doors at the Bowmer Theater. “Malcolm,” I called.

  He paused, swiveled his head, and then acknowledged me with the slightest of nods. “Juliet, hello.”

  I jogged down the bricks to meet him at the theater entrance. “Wow, you’re working early.”

  His key was inserted into the lock. “I needed to get some paperwork. This isn’t my typical start to a day. What are you doing out this early?”

  “Morning deliveries.” I realized I had left the boxes up on the bench.

  “We get morning pastry deliveries? How come no one ever told me that?” He turned the key. “I guess that’s indicative of the fact that I’m still too low on the food chain around here.”

  “No, I’m sure it’s not that. Sometimes we deliver morning treats to the cast and crew, but not today. I was delivering to a few businesses in the plaza and thought I’d see if Lance happened to be here.”

  Malcolm glanced at a fitness tracker that doubled as a watch on his wrist. “Now? I highly doubt it.”

  “Yeah, it was worth a shot, right?” I shrugged.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” He turned the handle and opened the door to the main stage. “I’m heading to my desk, but you’re welcome to join me.”

  Since he had offered I jumped at the chance to ask him about Edgar’s murder. I wasn’t breaking my promise to Thomas, not exactly. Malcolm had invited me in.

  “Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about Edgar and his property,” I said as we entered the lobby. The six-hundred-seat theater had been constructed in the late 1960s due to growing demand for tickets to the festival’s sold-out productions. Its stadium-style seating had a surprisingly intimate feel, due to the fact that no seat was more than fifty-five feet away from the stage. The spacious lobby’s huge arched wooden beams reminded me of the ship, the Amour of the Seas, where Carlos and I had sailed together.

  Malcolm locked the doors behind us. “What do you want to know about Edgar’s property?”

  “I spoke with Stella yesterday after I saw you at the bakeshop. She hinted that you might be a client.”

  “What’s your point?” He stuffed his keys into his jeans pocket. They were dark charcoal with intentional tears in the knee.

  “I was under the impression that there was another party who had already acquired the lot.”

  “Who?” Malcolm’s voice echoed in the open lobby. The faintest hint of popcorn lingered in the empty space. From February through October, the Bowmer hosted performances daily, except Mondays. Day after day theatergoers from around the globe entered these doors and queued up for refreshments while waiting with eager anticipation for the show.

  “I’m not sure,” I lied. Maybe I should have stayed out of it.

  “That’s too bad for whoever thinks that they’re getting the lot, because it’s ours. We haven’t made an announcement to the press yet, but that’s coming later today. The initial survey work is complete. I met with the survey crew the day Edgar died, and we have the preliminary site reviews done.”

  “Wait, OSF officially purchased Edgar’s lot?”

  Malcolm nodded. He motioned to the stairs. “That’s why I’m here early. I need to bring a copy of the contract to our legal team.”

  “You have a signed contract?” I don’t know why I couldn’t do anything other than to repeat Malcolm’s words.

  “I do. Had to pay thirty percent over asking price. That stung, but the board agreed that housing for our actors is of paramount concern for the future of the festi
val.”

  “You paid thirty percent over asking?”

  Malcolm raised one brow, making the left side of his lip curl. “Yes, that’s what I just said.”

  “I know. Sorry. I’m trying to make sense of that.” I didn’t want to go into the fact that there were not one but multiple parties who claimed the same thing.

  “Want to walk to my desk with me? I have to get the contracts anyway. You can see them for yourself.”

  “If you don’t mind?”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s going to be public record soon anyway. I don’t have anything to hide.”

  The Bowmer Theater was deserted. I hesitated for a second. No one knew that I was here, but Malcolm sounded transparent. It was morning, and soon actors and crew would be arriving to prepare for the matinee and backstage tours. It was a calculated risk to go with Malcolm, but I liked my odds.

  His office was close to Lance’s, but unlike senior members of the management team, Malcolm shared an office. His corner of the cramped space was sparsely decorated with a desk, filing cabinet, and bookshelf. Lance’s office was nicer than most hotel suites, with a built-in bathroom, wet bar, dozens of awards on display, and a comfortable couch and seating area. Malcom’s space was utilitarian. A few of his coworkers had personalized their desks with photos, but his was void of anything unique.

  He thumbed through a neat stack of files. “Here. Take a look.” He thrust one of the files labeled “OSF Trust” at me.

  Sure enough, the file contained a contract, signed by Edgar. I couldn’t believe it. How many people in Ashland had contracts with Edgar? His unethical business practices must have gotten him killed.

  I leafed through the contract, not sure what I was looking for. What was more than evident was that someone—Malcolm, Gretchen, or Stella—was lying. One of them must have learned about the other contracts and decided to seek revenge.

  Malcolm knocked on the top of his desk. “It’s all right there, like I said.”

  “Thanks for letting me see it.” I handed him the file.

  “You look upset.” He tucked the file under his arm.

  “No. I’m confused. I can’t figure out what Edgar’s end goal was. He promised the lot to a bunch of people.”

  “Maybe he promised, but he only inked a deal with us.” Malcolm gloated. “Who else thinks they have a claim to the lot?”

  I figured that Malcolm would hear about Pam and Gretchen soon enough. I had a feeling that the battle for the land would play out in the courts for many months. When I finished telling Malcolm what I knew his face blanched.

  “That can’t be true.”

  I shrugged. “It’s what I’ve heard.”

  He scratched his head. Then he rifled through the stack of files again. This time he removed a letter. “You should read this.”

  “What is it?”

  “A letter I received yesterday.”

  I opened the letter. It was written in a woman’s hand in gorgeous cursive. The letter was scathing. Demanding that Malcolm stop pursuing the empty lot. The letter was obviously written by one of OSF’s biggest donors. The threats escalated as I read on—claiming that the donor would pull all of her funds from the theater if Malcolm didn’t withdraw his offer for Edgar’s lot.

  I paused halfway through. “She’s not happy with you.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Keep reading. See who wrote it?”

  I read on. There was more of the same, but when I got to the last line, butterflies assaulted my stomach. It was signed Pam Denke, owner of Nightingales.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Pam wrote this?” I bent over to pick up the letter.

  “Yes. I haven’t done anything with it yet. Pam is one of our best donors, but we can’t let our patrons’ wishes dictate best business practices.”

  “Why is she this upset?”

  “She’s convinced that any additional housing units near her property will greatly devalue Nightingales. She’s not entirely wrong about that, but that’s business. She’s gone off the deep end. I think she’s unstable.”

  My throat tightened. Not Pam. Pam was a friend. She wouldn’t do something so extreme. Would she?

  I thought through every interaction I’d had with her. She had been on the property. She had access. She knew Edgar’s routine. Pam couldn’t have gone so far off the deep end, as Malcom had said, that she killed Edgar. Could she?

  “Are you okay?” Malcolm reached across the desk to steady me.

  “I’m fine. I need to go. Thank you for sharing this information with me. Did you show Pam’s letter to the police?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “No. I didn’t see a need. She wasn’t threatening me personally. Only to stop funding the theater. That happens all the time.”

  “You should call the police. I think they’re going to be very interested in that letter.”

  “Okay,” Malcolm agreed.

  I left in a rush, taking the stairs two at a time. What did this mean? I hadn’t wanted to believe that Pam was a murderess, but had I intentionally ignored the clues right in front of me?

  On my way out the front door I ran right into Lance.

  “Juliet, where’s the fire?”

  Without taking a breath, I explained what Malcolm had told me along with relaying my conversation with Thomas and Detective Kerry about Anna Mill from last night. “You’ve got to drop your plan to invite Anna to the theater under false pretenses. It’s serious, Lance.”

  He scowled when I finished. “You’re telling me that I have to cut the theatrics? Impossible. It’s in my blood.”

  “No, I’m telling you no car. No bottle of gin. No more elaborate lies. Thomas and Detective Kerry are taking it from here. I’m waiting for the social worker’s call.”

  “That certainly puts a damper on my morning.”

  “Same here. Lance, do you think there’s a chance that Pam could have killed Edgar?”

  He flipped his wrist. “I don’t see it. Sweet Pam who hosts literary salons with wine and cheese and nibbles on her back patio a stone-cold killer? Doubtful.”

  “But everything tracks back to her.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Did you have any luck with the archives?”

  He smoothed his pocket square. “Not yet. That’s why I arrived early. I was swept up by my adoring fans after the show last night. They practically kidnapped me and forced me out on the town for evening cocktails.”

  Knowing Lance, I doubted that he put up much of a protest.

  “Would you like to join me?”

  “No. I need to get to Torte and give Thomas a call. He needs to know about Pam.”

  “Suit yourself. If I find anything of interest I might keep it to myself.”

  “You know that you’ll call me right away if you find anything.”

  “Fine. But I’ll gloat.” He stretched his lanky neck to the sky in a show of superiority. “Ta-ta, darling.”

  I retrieved my delivery boxes. My cell phone rang. It was the social worker assigned to Anna’s case. We had a lengthy discussion about the state of Anna’s house. She asked me a few questions about Anna’s cognition as well as my opinion as to whether she was able to live independently. I answered honestly, yet with a feeling of regret, as I imagined she was building her case to place Anna in the state’s care. There wasn’t anything more I could do in the short-term. At least Anna was connected to services. Hopefully she would be able to get the support she needed to clean out her house and stay there with visits from nursing staff or social workers.

  Torte was packed when I returned. The couple I had taken a picture of in front of the Elizabethan theater sat at a booth in front of the windows. They waved when they spotted me. I returned their greeting and made a beeline for my office.

  I called Thomas and left a message about Pam, then I tried the Professor. He didn’t answer either, so I left a message for him too. I didn’t want to believe that Pam was a killer, but I couldn’t ignore the possibility.

&nbs
p; The morning passed in a blur. I circulated the dining room with pots of hot coffee and delivered pesto-and-egg croissants with thick-sliced bacon. Not even Bethany’s enthusiasm over our skyrocketing social media numbers could shake me from my funk.

  I went through the motions as the morning wore into the afternoon. Sterling’s fragrant vegetable minestrone was a hit, as were the oatmeal lace cookies and Andy’s accompanying latte. Sequoia continued to encourage customers to try her cheese tea, and even had a handful of takers. I kept my cell phone close by, anticipating that Thomas or the Professor would call, but it never rang.

  Rosa swept into the kitchen in the late afternoon with a tray of empty soup bowls and sandwich plates. “This lunch was a winner. The customers very much enjoyed the soup.”

  “Did we sell more of the vegetarian or the meat?” I asked.

  “We sold out of both.” She pressed her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss to Sterling and Marty. “Our wonderful cooks have done very good work.”

  “That’s what we like to hear.”

  “I did a count of the tickets for the Sunday Supper and it too is sold out,” Rosa added.

  “Great.”

  “Maybe you will consider expanding the suppers? You could host them at the winery in the summer when it is warm. We would often have outdoor dinners at the B and B. Our guests enjoyed getting to sit by the gas fireplace and eat under the stars.” Rosa’s soft brown curls framed her heart-shaped face. “I would be happy to help if you decide it’s something you’d like to try.”

  “That would be great,” I said with a smile. I was thrilled that the new staff were fitting in so well, and that Rosa felt comfortable suggesting new ideas. Uva would be the perfect space to host summer farm-to-table dinners. Our Sunday Suppers at Torte were cozy and intimate whereas at the winery we could set up large picnic tables and double or triple the number of guests. I would have to add it to my ever-growing to-do list.